Stalking
by wingedraksha
Summary: She wasn't stalking him. She was... she was observing. A lot. That was all. JONDA, ROMY
1. Denial, Denial, Denial

She never really intended it to go this far. Then again, very few of the things she intended actually worked out as planned, as a general rule. So really, she shouldn't have been surprised to find that by the time it occurred to her that maybe spending her free time stalking an Acolyte wasn't the best of ideas, she couldn't quite bring herself to _stop_.

Wanda sighed, mildly frustrated, and glanced as casually as she could manage over her shoulder. The boy with the flamethrowers was still there, leaning against one of the bigger oak trees in the public park and jotting something down in a cheap-looking spiral notebook. He didn't have the contraption that spat fire strapped onto his shoulders _now_, of course, and he was wearing civvies; she couldn't help but notice that the thin t-shirt enhanced his leanness in a way that was particularly pleasing to the eye. A little more than mildly frustrated now, Wanda ran a hand through her short dark cap of hair before shoving that hand, along with its mate, back into the pockets of her black jeans. He hadn't seen her yet; she'd been strolling along the bike path for a good five minutes, but he hadn't so much as glanced up from whatever he was writing.

Great.

So not only did she feel like a stupid, hormonally-unbalanced freak, she also felt like an _ignored_ one. The fact that him not seeing her was, actually, one of the key elements of the whole concept of 'stalking' didn't escape Wanda's attention, but she brushed it from her mind and focused on the thoughts that were more likely to cause violence to ensue. She was good at that. It was one of her special skills. Maybe she could just walk over and hex him, or go the less obviously inhuman route and hit him right on that pretty face. That would probably take care of this stupid, ridiculous, incomprehensible thing that was not, _could_ _not_ be, attraction.

Then again, she doubted he was unarmed, even if his more spectacular Acolyte attire was missing. Pyro, they called him; there was no chance he would be out and about without at least a lighter in his pocket. And if she walked over and decked him, Wanda felt quite sure that he would, after the initial shock and possible broken nose, fight back.

So instead of attacking, Wanda scuffed the ground with one worn combat boot and snarled at nothing. She had rounded the corner of the bike path at this point, but she refused to look over her shoulder to see if he was actually out of sight.

Really. This was…

"So fucking stupid," she muttered aloud, and a woman with a little boy glared at her. Wanda resisted the urge to flip them both off, but only just.

It had started out as mere curiosity, and who could blame her for that? No, not even curiosity; it had started out as _boredom. _The only reason she'd picked the fire boy to follow instead of the Cajun or the Russian or one of the older ones was because he was, well, combustible, and that made him interesting to a girl who spent her spare time electrocuting family members. And then she'd noticed that he wrote. Maybe poetry, maybe novels, but there was always a pen and a pad of paper nearby when he wasn't working. And she'd noticed that he was Australian, and that he was _funny_, and that his name wasn't really John (it was some strange foreign thing that was _like_ John, but not quite), and that he looked so good in a sleeveless shirt and gym pants that it should have been some sort of crime. And somewhere between the name and the gym pants, Wanda had stopped being curious and started being… being what? Obsessed? Hungry? Some word like that, some word she couldn't find or didn't want to admit.

Now, it was a bright Sunday afternoon when she could have been terrorizing Pietro or slamming Toad against sharp objects, but no. No, instead, she was here, in the park, a little sweaty in her jeans and crimson tank top, trying to pretend she wasn't fantasizing maybe just a little bit about the boy who could make fire dance.

And that was when a hand, very warm and very rough, fell on her shoulder. Wanda, never one for screams and jolts, whirled around with a curl of the lip.

John-not-really-John Allerdyce, of the spiky reddish hair and the easy, wicked grin, rocked back on his heels and looked her over.

"Well," he said, folding his arms, "I have to tell you, love, that shirt does wonders for your eyes when they go all devil-y like that."

Wanda, so shocked she was now on autopilot, sneered.

"Don't make me hurt you, Sparky." He smiled. She swept her eyes across him unwillingly, noting that the notebook and pen were clasped in one hand, and his smile widened.

"Seems to me I'm the one what should threaten you, sheila," he allowed, and tilted his head at her. "You being the stalker here and all." She blinked, and decided that this was a situation that was not likely to improve, and that escape was the best possible route. She'd make him pay for embarrassing her like this, though. Later.

"I'm not stalking you," Wanda said scornfully, preparing to stride past him. As she moved, Pyro caught her arm, reaching out so fast she didn't even see it coming. Anyone else, and Wanda would have taken that hand off at the wrist. Him, she just stared.

"I wouldn't mind," he said then, and though his eyes were bright and blue and disgustingly cheerful, his voice was more serious than she'd expected. "No one I'd rather have stalk me, actually." She hesitated, then hated herself for hesitating, and jerked her arm out of his grasp.

"Whatever." He was still very close to her, his chest inches from her shoulder, and she could feel the heat of him. Or was that the heat of the day, or her own warmth, or—It didn't matter. She had to get out of there before, before something even more awful happened. Something like…

"Besides," he said, much more lightly, "now that it's out in the open and all, you won't feel so self-conscious about watchin' me change for work!" She gaped, taken completely by surprise, and felt herself flush.

"I haven't- I don't-" Angry, now, because he'd gotten the best of her and they both knew it, Wanda raised a hand and flicked her fingers towards him. A tiny, almost invisible bolt of crackling blue electricity shot into his chest and he stumbled backwards, free hand going to the spot where the hex bolt had hit his shirt and burned a hole clean through the fabric. She glowered at him, warningly, and was startled once again when instead of retaliating or backing off, he laughed out loud.

"Good on you," he said, inexplicably, and bowed. Wanda stared, frowning, confused. Pyro just shook his head, still rubbing at the scorched place on his chest. "Well, I'm off. But I'm sure I'll be seeing you," he added, finally stepping backwards towards the other end of the park. She watched him go, filled with the uncomfortable notion that something had just happened that she didn't quite understand. When he was about twenty yards away, he called back to her. "Oh, and Wanda?" She didn't answer. (He knew her name.)

"Next time, I get to play, too." Then he was through the little grove of trees in the middle of the park and gone. Wanda sighed.

She never really intended it to go this far.

Now that it had, though…

She was a little, tiny, barely-there, practically nonexistent bit pleased.


	2. There Is Truth In Wine

**A/N: I always get annoyed when people put translations, etc. down at the bottom, because by the time I get to the bottom I've forgotten what they were translations of. So maybe this is going to achieve the same effect, but whatever, it's my story so I make the rules.**

**Translations:**

**_fou - crazy_**

**_d'accord - okay_**

**_garcon, tu n'as pas une cervelle - boy, you don't have a brain_**

**_belle soeur - beautiful sister_**

**_mon ami - my friend_**

**_bail her up - corner her (Australian slang)  
_**

xxxxxxx

"You ain't gonna believe this, mate, but-"

"Shut up, _fou_, I'm watchin' this!" Pyro leaned forward on the couch and elbowed Remy Lebeau in the upper arm, finally catching the taller man's attention. Remy rolled his eyes towards the redhead and cleared his throat. "What." Pyro ignored the irritation that rolled off the Cajun in waves, and flung a hand out for emphasis.

"I just had the weirdest day, Rem; give a bloke some sympathy here!" Remy ran a hand through his already-disheveled, just-a-little-too-long hair, and mentally kissed that night's rerun of The Sopranos goodbye.

"_D'accord_, Johnny. Remy is your very own soundin' board." John, either completely missing or completely ignoring the sarcasm, cleared his throat.

"Ok, great. So here's what happened. You know that Wanda girl? Pietro's sister?" Remy nodded lazily, fingertips flicking against the pack of cigarettes in his lap. "She's been followin' me around. I told you 'bout that, right?"

"And then _I_ told _you_ it was nothin' more than your special brand o' paranoid psychosis." Pyro smirked, shook his head.

"See, I was all inclined to believe you, mate, you bein' the cunning sort and all, but then she was in the park today and come _on_, Remy-boy, how is that a coincidence?" Now Remy sat back, a bit surprised.

"Wanda Maximoff was in the park? Just havin' a stroll?" He laughed. "All right, Johnny, you might be onto somethin'." Pyro nodded energetically.

"That's what I'm saying! Right, so I snuck 'round behind her so's to bail her up, since, whew, she may be a pretty lady but she sure can do some damage. And what does she do?" He paused, as if actually expecting Remy to supply the answer. Lebeau smiled sardonically, raising his brows in exaggerated curiosity. "She blushes! Fires right up! And so I goad her a bit-"

"You 'goad her'?_ Garcon, tu n'as pas une cervelle_. You know she could take you apart like a Lego castle?" Pyro shrugged.

"Sure she could. But she didn't. Just hit me with one o' them lovely blue shocks." He patted the burned spot on his chest. "Didn't say a word, either, just stood there all red-faced. Went beautifully with her shirt," he finished, grinning. Then, thoughtfully, "Besides. That sheila was shocked enough I could have melted her pants off before she noticed." This thought brought a smirk to his lips, and to Remy's. The Cajun shook his head, chuckling, and patted the Australian on the shoulder.

"Well, well," he said, the TV in the background forgotten. "It does appear that Speedy's _belle soeur_ has a weakness after all. And jus' what are you going to do about it, _mon ami_?" At this, Pyro's grin turned evil.

"Oh, me? Nothin' much, my dear Remy, nothin' much at all."

"You're going to stalk her back, aren't you."

"Always could read me like a book," John conceded cheerily, and sat back, crossing his arms behind his head. "Now, how about them Sopranos?"

xxxxxxxxx

Wanda might not have noticed it. She might have just carried on, oblivious.

If she were _blind_, that was.

He wasn't even being subtle about it! He was just blatantly popping up places, places where he had _no right_ to be!

It was a week since their confrontation in the park, and Wanda had now spotted John in twelve different hardly-covert locations, from the aisle parallel to hers in the grocery store to the tree beneath which she had paused to lace up her left boot a little tighter on the way to meet Lance and Freddy. And every time, _every time_, he had vanished just as quickly as he'd appeared. So that was a whole new reason for her fury: not only was he stalking her right back, he was… well, damn it, he was _better_ at it than she was.

Not that she'd been stalking him, really. Just… Well.

She wasn't doing it anymore, was the important thing. Wanda snorted at that thought, brows furrowing dangerously. As if she needed to. He had that covered, didn't he?

Now that Pyro was playing her game, the game she hadn't even meant to begin, and playing it like a master, Wanda found that her (not attraction, not attraction, not attraction!) minor obsession with him had turned decidedly more violent. He made her feel off her guard, and embarrassed, and dizzy, and-

Wait.

Dizzy?

"He does not make me dizzy," Wanda muttered to herself, picking up one of the cute little ceramic creatures Toad had taken to giving her at random intervals and joggling it in her palm. "Unless it's dizzy with _rage_," she amended, to make herself feel better. It didn't work. She hurled the figurine at her bedroom wall, and watched it shatter against the plaster and drywall with a very satisfying smash.

If she'd been pleased at hearing that he didn't mind her following him about (that, in fact, there was no one else he'd rather have following him about, not that that made any difference at all to anything), that brief flash of pleasure was gone. Zip. Out the window. Now, Wanda was mainly just pissed off.

Which had to explain the dreams. When you're furious with someone, you think about them a lot. And when you think about them a lot, they show up in your dreams. It's a scientifically proven fact. She knew this. It made sense. Obviously. And besides, it wasn't as if they were particularly _raunchy_ dreams at all! Hardly. Just, well, and anyway, she couldn't remember them very well in the morning, so what did it matter?

A knock at the door made Wanda jerk around, eyes flashing.

"Who is it?" She'd gotten better at controlling her temper, much better, but Wanda was more on edge these days than she'd been since first getting out. Pietro, hearing the sharpness in her voice, very cautiously opened her door a crack and poked his head around it.

"It's me," he said unnecessarily. She stared at him, blank-faced. "Freddy went and got pizza and we were wondering if you wanted any." A millisecond's worth of pause, which for Pietro meant he was deeply, seriously considering whatever he was about to say. "And Lance got beer." Wanda swung her legs off her desk and stood, brushing off her thighs. The apprehension in her brother's eyes was gratifying, and she felt her anger drop a smidge. Enough for a slight smile, anyway, since really, he hadn't done anything wrong. Yet.

"And you think getting me drunk would be… a _good_ plan?" Pietro, now picking up on the noticeably-less-infuriated tone of her voice, pushed the door open wider and shrugged.

"I'm hoping you'll be one of the pass-out-after-one-can drunks, you know?" Wanda shook her head and brushed past him, letting her twin pull her door closed behind him as he followed her downstairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

As it turned out, Wanda Maximoff wasn't a passing-out type of girl. No, she was one of the start-rambling-aimlessly-about-any-topic drunks, and it only took two beers to get her to the point of sitting next to Toad, of all people, flinging her hands about for emphasis and complaining about the stupidity of 99% of licensed drivers. Toad, wisely sober enough to dodge the occasional accidental hex bolt that flew from Wanda's inebriated fingertips, was all too pleased to listen. Across the room, Pietro and Lance were locked in a staring contest that was far more epic in their own heads than in real life while Freddy swayed gently to the sound of his own voice, crooning old Beatles ballads in front of the TV.

"And then they-" A hiccup. "They think, and this is the wors' thing of _all_, but they think they can jus' _drive right behind_ you like it's some sort of… of _bumper_ cars game, the fuckers!" She wasn't sure if she was making sense, but Toad was nodding enthusiastically so she figured it must be coming out all right. Then again, Toad would nod enthusiastically about anything she said, so there was that… Wanda wrinkled her nose, deciding it didn't really matter if she made sense or not. "Because," she said aloud, "no one in this house makes any sense anyway."

"Nope," Toad agreed, inching closer on the couch, "we're totally cr- uh, non-sense-making," he corrected, having come dangerously close to using the word which Wanda had expressly forbidden weeks ago. The C-word. Crazy. Wanda didn't notice, and laughed.

"Yeah. You know what's _really_ non… non-sense-making?" She paused, trying to clear her vision and her head enough to continue that sentence, and frowned at the double image of Toad's hand creeping towards her knee. She slapped at it, unintentionally sending a jolt of static electricity magnified by her powers into the younger boy's wrist that was strong enough to make him snatch his hand away with a loud yelp. Unbothered by the exchange, Wanda went on. "What's _really_ non-sense-making is that Pyro won't leave-" She hiccupped again, put a hand to her throat, blinked wildly for a moment. "-won't leave me alone, and_ I don' even mind_." She laughed again, and waved her hand in the air between her face and Toad's. If she'd been actually looking at the other mutant, she might have seen the sudden change in his expression, the darkening of the eyes and the suspicious downturn of the mouth. "_Seriously_," Wanda said, suddenly feeling as though he hadn't believed her. "I'm not joking, Toad."

"He bothering you, sweetcakes?" Toad asked, choosing to ignore the part where she claimed not to care. Because that would be ridiculous, and stupid, and- and- and completely unfair! But Wanda swung around and put a hand on his shoulder, which on the one hand was the closest she'd ever gotten to willingly touching him without some ulterior motive involving a whole lot of pain, but on the other hand didn't make him feel any better about what she'd said about the Acolyte. She stared at him, pupils dilating, breath smelling of alcohol and pepperoni (which was the sweetest smell in the world to Toad, at the moment), and shook her head.

"I don' _like_ him, or anything," she said in a low voice, as if needing him to confirm it. Toad nodded hesitantly. "It's not like I… like I _want_ him…. Around," she added, blushing without realizing it.

"Right," Toad said nervously, with a helpless, humorless giggle. "You don't. He's nasty and mean and set me on fire that one time." Wrong thing to say. Wanda smiled, eyes going dreamy.

"Yeah… That was funny."

"Yo, that was _awful_," Toad corrected, and Wanda shrugged.

"Anyway. _Pyro_," she said, drawing out the syllables and sitting back against the sofa, removing her hand from Toad's shoulder. "Hm." Toad, feeling sick, scooted closer.

"But, babykins-"

"Shut up," Wanda told him, and closed her eyes. When Toad tried to grab her arm, she shook him off and, unsurprisingly, he soared across the room and into Freddy's stomach. Pietro, sweating with the effort of keeping still and wide-eyed for such an agonizingly long time, glanced automatically up at Toad at the moment of impact, and Lance let out a triumphant hoot. He slapped the coffee table they were leaning over, and a fine crack ran through the glass.

"Beat you, Speedy-weedy!"

"Shut your face," Pietro said sullenly, and then promptly passed out.


	3. Ambushed

"Oh, god."

"Headache?"

"I have a head?" Wanda groaned, and whoever had suggested that, just maybe, her head _might_ be painful right now, put something cool and soft and wet across her eyes. Cloth, her mind registered.

"You'll be fine, sis," Pietro (so it was Pietro after all) assured her, and Wanda heard footsteps retreating. A door closed. Slowly, achingly, she reached up and pulled the washcloth from her face. She was in her own room, on her bed, on top of the covers. Still wearing the ripped jeans and lace-up shirt she'd fallen asleep in the night before. Someone, most likely her brother, being the one with the fastest metabolism in the house and therefore the least affected by such menial things as hangovers, had carried her up here after she'd passed out on the couch. And then he'd gone and gotten her a damp cloth, which, she had to admit, did feel pretty good against her eyelids. Grudgingly, Wanda admitted to herself that Pietro was maybe not the worst twin a girl could have. _These days, anyway._

She put the cloth back and settled down against her pillows, sighing. Her head throbbed, and her stomach felt queasy, and her mouth tasted disgusting. She wanted to brush her teeth, or drink something that didn't taste anything remotely like alcohol, but that would involve getting up, and that was just not acceptable. At least she'd spent the night on an actual mattress, rather than sprawled awkwardly on half of the couch… Wanda vaguely remembered her head falling back against the back of the sofa at an angle that would definitely have caused a cramp if she'd stayed there all night. Idly, she wondered if anyone had bothered to move Toad. Probably not. He was not the kind of-

Wanda blinked against the cloth, and suddenly her head felt remarkably clear.

Toad.

Couch.

Talking.

As if it were a memory of a movie, or a scene in which someone _else_ made a fool of herself while Wanda watched and snickered, she saw herself leaning into Toad and gesturing insistently. _"It's not like I… like I _want_ him…" _

"Oh, shit," Wanda moaned, not even registering the dull throb of pain that the sound of her own voice sent through her temples. "Oh, no." She pushed herself up, holding the cloth against her eyes with one hand and feeling her way across the room with the other. She was headed for her bedroom door, so as to stumble down the hallway to the bathroom and splash her face with cold water until she felt well enough to track down Toad and make sure he forgot he ever heard a thing. Just as she reached it, though, her hand skating across the wood and finding the cool metal knob, someone flung the door wide open quickly enough that it only just missed smacking her in the face. Wanda dropped the washcloth, and opened her mouth to let out some very choice curses… and then looked up and saw who it was that had so rudely invaded her space.

Pyro braced himself in the doorframe, one hand on either side panel, and grinned at her.

"Hello, gorgeous," he said.

"Wanda, I'm sorry; he said he'd burn my uniform in my sleep if I didn't let him in!" Pietro, hovering behind the Acolyte, looked markedly less apologetic than he sounded. "And, y'know, the others are all still out of it," Pietro added, as if that would make it any less horrible of him, and then vanished. Wanda's shock was mostly gone now, and her head still hurt, and John was right there in front of her with that stupid grin on his stupid face and she felt the power welling up beneath her skin until it was ready to leap out and destroy something.

"Get out of my face," she snarled, which didn't really help her headache but definitely matched her mood. He was dressed casually again, in cut-off jean shorts and a paint-stained (at least, she thought it was paint) yellow wifebeater. The yellow should have looked ridiculous with his orange hair, as if he were a candle wick, but instead it just made it easier to see the faint definition of his chest. Not that that was something she was looking at.

Pyro let go of the doorframe and stroked his chin. He didn't back off.

"Now," he said, mock-thoughtful, "I believe we agreed that I'd get to play next time we met. But," and now he spread both hands and widened his eyes in hurt surprise, "you never followed through!" Wanda, sparks flying from her fingertips and sending little ripples of electricity through the carpet to zap against the walls, sneered at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Actually, the only thing I _do_ know is that you annoy the hell out of me, and I'm hungover, and you're in my _space_, and if you don't get out of here by the time I'm done saying this, I'll make you eat your own spine!" Immediately, John had a lighter in his hand and a deceptively delicate snake of flame writhing through his fingers. He smiled, looking delighted.

"Go ahead and try it, sheila," he offered, and the fire-snake grew to twine around his wrist with a sinuous rhythm that Wanda couldn't help but watch. She yanked her eyes away at the sound of his laughter, and raised a hand. Pyro flew backwards and slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the hall, the back of his skull cracking against the plaster. She felt an awful flash of concern, and that only made her more angry.

"How do you like the game now, Johnny?" she shot, relieved at the fact that, finally, she seemed to have the upper hand.

"'S more like what I thought I signed up for," he said, and to her annoyance he sounded not at all put off by what must have been quite a painful bruise forming on the back of his head. "Though, I got to say, I've been missin' havin' you on my back."

"I was never 'on your back'," Wanda said scornfully, and only then realized the possible double entendre of that statement. Too late. Pyro smirked, and straightened against the wall, managing to make leaning against it look lazy and untroubled rather than necessary due to head injury.

"Well, I guess it's for the best," he said wickedly. "I'd much rather have you on my front." Wanda, although she'd been expecting it, felt his words slice through her like knives. Very… hot… knives. Very… hot… wait. She looked down, and realized that while she was distracted, he'd quietly set the hem of her shirt on fire. With a shriek that was half-horrified, half-enraged, Wanda tried to put out the growing blaze with her powers. Nothing happened. She remembered that she was still hungover, and exhausted, and hardly in complete control of herself, and blanched.

Wanda stumbled backwards into her room, the leather of her top protecting her from the blaze but quickly burning away, and beat at her stomach with her palms. She'd only gotten a few steps towards her bed, where she knew she could smother the flames, when the redheaded Acolyte leaped forward and stretched out a hand. The fire left her chest, curling around his fingers before snuffing out as if it had never even existed. She was left standing, heaving, staring at him in what was fast becoming the trademarked John Allerdyce-inspired mix of emotions: shocked fury.

And then her top, which was really not much more than a bodice now burned half-through, fell apart.


	4. Not Quite Coitus Interruptus

**Translations: **

**_fille_ - girl**

**_homme - _man**

**_mon ami_ - my friend**

**_apres ca _- after that**

**_laissez les bons temps rouler_ - let the good times roll  
**

xxxxxxx

"Don't touch me."

"Aw, c'mon, love, just let me get this off-"

"I can do it!" John refused to be slapped away, and Wanda felt her face heat horribly as his fingers tugged at the remnants of her shirt. She snatched at his hand and forced it away from her stomach, and John frowned at her.

"It's still _smoldering_," he pointed out, and she had to admit that yes, the leather still had a few glowing spots, if only on the top layer, and that true, she couldn't exactly pull it off herself until it stopped being too hot to touch. Pyro had no such compunctions, and pulled his hand out of her grasp with irritating ease to grab, once again, at the open lacing. She bit her lip, humiliated, and let him tug the straps over her shoulders and down her arms to leave her awkward and uncomfortable in just her favorite black-and-red striped bra. John tossed the ruined top carelessly over his shoulder, and stepped back to stare at her appreciatively. Wanda snarled, and the ceiling light in the hallway exploded. For the third time that month.

"Now leave!" She refused to blush (she was already blushing), and she refused to cross her arms and act all ashamed and little-girl-like, and most of all she refused to turn around and find another shirt with him standing there _smirking_ at her as she did it.

"Why?" He had the audacity to reach out and lay his hands against her waist, and Wanda didn't even notice that as soon as he touched her, the painful almost-burns just below her bellybutton vanished. She was too busy trying to decide whether she should tear his nose off and shove it through his ear, electrocute him until his skeleton exploded, or yank his head down to hers and kiss him until- No, no, not that last one! While she, flustered, deliberated, Pyro stepped closer and slid his hands up to rest lightly against her ribcage. Wanda looked up at him, frozen, because he was actually _touching_ her now, not just brushing against her skin, and he was very close, and he was very warm, and…

"What are you doing?" she asked, and it came out rather more high pitched than she'd intended. His smug expression had faded, and now he was just looking at her with something like… something like… she couldn't place what that look in his eyes was, except that it made her very, very nervous. Wanda couldn't believe she was just standing there and letting him-

"'S a pretty piece o' shine," John said, jutting his chin at her bra. She had no idea what to say to that.

"Uh," she managed, which seemed to be an adequate response. He didn't look so irritating now, and, in fact, she was having a hard time remembering exactly why she'd been so irritated in the first place. His lips curved, just the bare hint of a smile, and something indefinably dangerous flashed in those brilliant blue eyes.

And that was when Toad, moving with the kind of loopy, uncoordinated speed of the very tired or the very angry, slammed against the doorframe, reached out, snagged the back of Pyro's shirt and yanked. The Acolyte let go of Wanda and stumbled back a step, less due to Toad's arm strength than to sheer surprise.

"Stay away from my girl!" Toad shouted, which made Wanda wince for more than one reason. John, swinging around to face the shorter boy, simply stared for an instant before bursting into laughter. Toad did not look amused.

"For the last time, you despicable reptile, I am not 'your' _anything_," Wanda snapped, almost relieved at the intrusion. Toad, she understood. Toad, she could deal with. She shoved Pyro to one side and grabbed Toad by the front of his grimy shirt, bunching it around her fist to give her the necessary leverage to lift him to his toes. His eyes were locked on her chest, which, she realized, was now probably more accessible than ever before, and so Toad didn't even see the knee that she slammed into his crotch. She let him go and he crumpled to the ground, curling into a pathetic shrimp of a boy with both hands at his groin. Wanda looked at him dispassionately for a moment, and then elbowed the still-snorting redhead in the stomach.

"Shut up. And get out." He allowed himself to be pushed by hard, invisible hands, stepping lightly over Toad's body and near trembling with mirth. Wanda didn't wait for John to turn around and say something else, or try to grab for her again, and slammed the door with an angry grunt. Toad, just barely on the other side of the threshold, groaned as the door smacked against his forehead.

"I was only tryin' to defend your honor, snookums," he moaned under the door, over the sound of Pyro's retreating footsteps. Wanda shook her head.

"If my honor needs defending, I can damn well do it myself," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure which of them she was trying to convince.

xxxxxx

John slammed his way into the Acolyte base with a hoot and a triumphant fist raise. Remy, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal and some coffee, looked at him with first a subdued, bleary annoyance (it was almost noon, but still) and then with more amused comprehension. He lifted his chin at John, who hovered in the doorframe like a wasp.

"I take it you got to see a li'l of what's behind that red cape?" John, settling down enough to stroll into the kitchen and shove his hands in his pockets (probably so they wouldn't flail about and knock things over as he told the story), allowed a _very_ satisfied expression to curl its way onto his mouth.

"You certainly could say that, mate," he told Remy, and hoisted himself lightly up to sit on the table beside the box of cereal the Cajun hadn't yet put away. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, John grinned widely and proceeded to clarify exactly what had gone down at the Brotherhood House.

Remy, at the part where John nearly incinerated Wanda's shirt, choked on his spoonful of Frosted Flakes and shook his head in amazement.

"Y'know, take it from Remy," he commented as John paused to slap him on the back, "gettin' rid of a _fille_'s top on the first date only works when you don't cause them actual bodily harm." John shrugged.

"Aw, she was fine. Few burns, maybe, but I fixed 'em. And it _would_ have worked, I swear! I was _right_ there, hands on her waist an' everything, and she wasn't doing anything but just staring at me all doe-eyed and then that _bloody_ Toad creature showed up."

"He break you two lovebirds up?" John groaned, throwing up his now-freed hands.

"Just yanked me off her, is all, and made her remember she hates him and, come to think of it, she hates me, too…" Remy nodded sympathetically.

"So that's when you got thrown out."

"That's when I got thrown out. Well," John amended thoughtfully, "more like shoved."

"Bad luck, _homme_. But, as they say," he added with a grin, "all's fair in love and war. So I'm thinking you ought to go back and show _M'sieu _Toad who's boss, and _après ca_?_ Laissez les bons temps rouler_!" John laughed. Piotr, wandering in from somewhere towards the back half of the base, stopped at the sound.

"I hope there is no fire to make you laugh like this, John," he said slowly, looking around the kitchen. Remy waved a hand dismissively.

"Ah, _non_, my metallic friend; Johnny-boy has, uh, girl problems. Remy here was jus' giving him some advice." Piotr shook his head and reached for the cereal on the counter.

"As long as you are not _too_ successful," he warned, pouring himself a bowl. "There must be no progeny." There was a pause, and then Remy let out a surprised laugh. John, taking Remy's example, laughed for a second and then stopped at the realization that the joke was on him.

"Hey!" Piotr smiled at him apologetically, and turned to get the milk. Looking over his shoulder, he eyed the redhead.

"Who is this girl?" John opened his mouth, then tilted his head around, trying to find a way to say 'Wanda Maximoff' without saying, well…. 'Wanda Maximoff'. Remy, unsympathetic now, looked at Piotr.

"The Scarlet Witch," he announced, scooping up some cereal. "Pietro's twin." Piotr blinked. John blushed. Remy smirked. Then, Piotr just poured himself some milk and, very delicately, picked up the bowl.

"Then there _really_ cannot be children," he said simply, and padded from the room. John looked to Remy, wounded, but the Cajun just shrugged and nodded.

"He's right, _mon ami_. We don't want no mini-Lecter's runnin' around." At that, John had to concede the point.

**A/N: You know what would make me really, really happy? You do, don't you... That's right, clicking that pretty greenish button down there (it is greenish, right? I'm gonna feel kind of dumb if it's not...) and REVIEWING! It would make me smile. A lot. And write more. Faster. Faster, stronger, better, harder, all that shit. So... pretty please?**


	5. Backfire

**Hey, I threw in some Romy! Just hints, just hints. Exciting, I know.**

xxxxxxx

It was, granted, an act of near desperation. She'd gone over her options, thrown out the ones involving the word 'murder', 'disappear' and 'destroy'. That left her with really only the one choice.

Wanda called Rogue.

They met at a coffee shop in town, Wanda having changed into her best pair of black pants and a blue t-shirt that Agatha had given her right after her escape. She wanted to be as low-profile as possible, as this little rendez-vous was embarrassing enough without someone recognizing her, and so although it felt strange to be in such regular clothes, Wanda bit the bullet and managed. Rogue, of course, was her normal sardonically Gothic self, and seemed more amused at the whole situation than anything else. Wanda should have known she wouldn't care about being seen with the enemy.

"So you have… boy problems?" Wanda hated the undisguised humor in the other girl's voice, and ran a hand roughly through her short hair.

"I- yes." Rogue smiled, just a crooked tilting slant that reminded Wanda so much of that other Acolyte, the Cajun, that it was unsettling.

"And you called _me_?" Wanda flung her hands up, annoyed and helpless all at once.

"Who else was I supposed to call? That, that cat person you're so buddy-buddy with? Or, god forbid, _Tabitha_?" Rogue shrugged and nodded.

"Touche." She leaned forward. "So what's the deal?" Wanda groaned, lowered her head to glare at the table, and muttered something. Rogue cupped a hand to her ear. "Sorry, what?"

"It's Pyro," Wanda said, barely a smidge louder.

"Wanda, sugar, you're going to have to speak up a li'l more."

"It's _Pyro_, damn it," Wanda said for the third time, this time nearly snarling the words. There was a pause. Then Rogue let out a half-surprised, half-delighted guffaw. Wanda thought about leaping across the table to slam a hand over Rogue's mouth, then reconsidered and just waited, glowering. To her credit, Rogue didn't laugh for long. She sobered up after a few seconds and shook her head.

"Sorry, sorry. Right. So you and Johnny, huh?"

"No," Wanda said quickly. Then she sighed. "I don't know." Quietly, she told Rogue what had happened the day before in the Brotherhood house. Rogue listened, occasionally smirking, but said nothing until Wanda was finished.

"Well, I'm no expert," she said then, "but I think it's pretty obvious that boy is crazy 'bout you." Wanda winced at the word, but then snorted.

"He's crazy, that's for sure…"

"No, seriously," Rogue argued, grinning. "What kind o' guy breaks his way into a girl's house, takes off her shirt and then doesn't just attack her then and there if he doesn't actually care?" Wanda rolled her eyes.

"Oh, I dunno, the kind of guy who _doesn't_ actually care?" But even as she said it she knew it was bullshit. She'd seen the look on his face. "But that's not really it, Rogue," Wanda admitted. "I just… He makes me…"

"He makes you stupid," Rogue supplied, resting her chin in the palm of one hand. "Makes you forget where you are, who you are. Makes you not care that he's s'posed to be a bad guy. An' when you look in his eyes, it's like everythin' else is spinning and you're just still." Wanda blinked.

"Yeah, that's right." Rogue's eyes, having wandered a bit, snapped back to hers. She blushed. Wanda quirked a brow. "Who exactly are we talking about, here?"

"Your boy, of course," Rogue said quickly, and cleared her throat. "So he knocks you off balance…"

"And I want it back," Wanda finished for her, frowning. "Yes, that's it. I want to make him feel like-" She reddened, but then went on. "I want to make him feel like he's not the one in control." Rogue's face slid into a wicked grin.

"Oh, honey, _that_ I can do."

xxxxxxx

John was trying to write. It wasn't really working. He had the start of something, an idea, maybe, but it just wouldn't _expand_. He couldn't get it off the ground, no matter how many little plot strings he tried to follow. Frustrated, he tossed his ballpoint pen across the room. It smacked against the target he'd drawn on one wall months ago, and fell to the floor.

That was when Piotr, coughing in his polite way, knocked on the door.

"John? You have a telephone call," the Russian said through the wood. Distracted, John waved a hand at the door and then remembered that it was closed, so Piotr wouldn't see that. He got up, opened the door, and took the cordless phone. Piotr waited until the shorter boy was back in his room before allowing himself a small, pleased smile.

"Yeah?" John asked, preparing to fall back into his desk chair.

"Hello, Mister Allerdyce," said Wanda, and John misjudged his angle and fell straight past the chair and onto the floor.

"Ow! Shite! Wait. Hang on." He righted himself, adjusted the phone, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "Right. Wanda, hi." She laughed on the other end, and it sounded so unlike the Wanda he knew that John had to take the phone away from his ear and stare at it for a second.

"So," she said, just as he put the phone back. "I think we need to talk." John smiled, running a hand through his hair as suavely as was possible from his position on the floor.

"Do we, now?" She hesitated, and he felt a little more successful. Then she seemed to rally.

"Oh, yes. Meet me at the bridge on Water Street in… twenty minutes." John glanced at his watch. Just past six.

"All right," he agreed, and Wanda laughed again. For the first time, it occurred to John that perhaps he should be worried. Before he could say anything else, the girl on the other end hung up without another word. John blinked, then dropped the phone and got lightly to his feet. He looked down at himself. Jeans, a red t-shirt under a loose black button-up. Good enough.

"Boys," he called, jogging down the stairs, "I'm going out."

After he was gone, Remy looked at Piotr across the couch where they were lounging. Well, Remy was lounging, at least.

"So Wanda's got somethin' up her sleeve, hein?" The Russian nodded slightly.

"I heard Rogue with her," he said, glancing surreptitiously at his teammate. At the name, Remy's eyes flickered.

"Rogue?" Then he chuckled. "Oh, Johnny-boy won't even know what hit him."

xxxxxxx

Wanda got to the bridge early, but on Rogue's advice waited around the corner opposite from the direction John would be coming in. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, the one borrowed from Rogue, then forced herself to let it go and contented herself with just twisting the rings on her right hand. It was a warm evening, still bright outside, and she tried to make herself enjoy the wait. Remember the plan, Wanda told herself. It's a good plan. It'll work. And it was a good plan, after all. If she could actually pull it off. _"You're sexy, Wanda,"_ Rogue had told her. _"Just remember that an' you'll be fine." _Right.

She stilled when she caught sight of John, walking with one hand rakishly dipped into the pocket of his jeans, the other playing with what looked like a Zippo. Of course. His hair was disheveled, his chin just a tad stubbly, and Wanda had to bite her lip and remind herself that she was powerful, and dangerous, and, as Rogue had assured her, pretty damn attractive.

"Ok," she breathed to herself, smoothing her hands across her thighs. "Let's do this."

xxxxxxx

John reached the bridge, glanced around, saw no one. He put his hands on the railing and leaned out, then spun around to rest against it and wait. He was just slipping his lighter back into the pocket of his pants when he saw her.

Wanda walked- or, no, stalked- towards him from around the street corner, her arms casually folded across her chest. Her boots, which were knee-high and leather and tight enough to have been painted on, clicked sharply against the pavement. His eyes followed those long legs up to the uneven hem of the layered black skirt that ended a good six inches above the knee, up to the tight red tank top under the thin, gauzy mesh top that fell off her shoulders like a shawl but clung to the taut curves of her forearms and waist, up to the devilishly gelled hair that arced across her forehead and sent sharp tips of red or black hair into her gleaming blue eyes.

He swallowed.

"Looking good, sheila," he managed. Wanda's full, dark lips curved.

"'Looking good'? Is that the best you can do?" She stopped a few feet away, one hand on her hip, and ran her eyes across him without a hint of subtlety. John leaned his elbows against the railing and tilted his chin at her.

"You're gorgeous, love," he stated, and raised a brow. "And you know it." He thought he saw a faint blush at that, but then Wanda ran a hand up her side to her neck to play with the leather choker there, and he lost track of most other thoughts besides the ones necessary to keep his eyes on that hand. Wanda smiled. John, flustered against his will, hid it as well as he could.

"Do you know why I asked you to meet me here?" she asked him, and John raised his eyes to her face. Again, he remembered that she wasn't exactly the least dangerous girl in the world. Especially looking like this. He wished he hadn't put away his lighter, but lifted his chin anyway and curled one corner of his mouth in a sly half-grin.

"We need to…" He ran his eyes over her again, deliberately, trying to regain the ground that he felt he'd lost in this little encounter. "…Talk," he finished. But it didn't work as well as he'd hoped, and Wanda just stepped closer. John swallowed. She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, thumb brushing across the spot where her hex bolt had burned him all those days ago.

"That doesn't still hurt, does it?" she asked, now close enough that, if he were to move his hands at all from where they dangled on either side of his chest, he'd be touching her. Silently, John shook his head. He could feel the heat of her. He knew what she was doing, though, and he refused to be played! Refused, damn it. He wouldn't touch her. He would not fall for this. She licked her lips, and he almost groaned.

xxxxxxx

She licked her lips, and John closed his eyes for just a hint longer than a normal blink. Wanda had to stop herself from laughing out loud. Rogue had been right! This was easier than she'd ever imagined! She took the liberty of sliding her other hand up his chest and onto his shoulder, enjoying the way he tensed at her touch. _There_, she thought triumphantly. _Now you know how it feels!_ She wondered just how far she should push it; she and Rogue had laid out a basic script to follow, but this was so much _fun_.

"I'm glad," she said, moving her hands back down his chest to slip beneath his unbuttoned over-shirt and rest on top of his t-shirt, just above his hips. John stared at her, and something was flickering in his eyes, something that made Wanda's breath catch. She ignored it. "I didn't mean to really hurt you."

"Sure you did," he breathed, and she noticed that his forearms, though in such a casual position, were tauter than his stomach. _He must be trying so hard not to touch me_, she realized, and felt the hot murmuring spark in her belly grow.

"That's why, really," Wanda began, feeling the desire spreading through her stomach and lower, knowing that she had to call this off and _fast_, "I wanted to see you. I wanted to, uh, apologize," she said, not quite willing to pull her hands away yet. "I think we've gotten a little carried away with all this, and-" Without warning, John shoved off the bridge railing and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her up against his chest close enough that she could feel his heart pounding against her breast.

"That's not carried away, Wanda," he said, seeming to have come to a decision. "_This_ is carried away."

And he kissed her.

**Review? Yes? Excellent! Good choice! Really, I approve. I think you're just so smart for doing that. I wish I were as good a person as you. Seriously, I'm ashamed now. God. **


	6. Repercussions and Admissions

It had every potential to be epically romantic. They were on a bridge, early evening, dusky gold light catching at the subtle shading in their skin. His hands swept up her back and held her close, her fingers flying up to tangle in his hair—and then she shoved him away with such a violent push that he stumbled backwards and slammed into the railing behind him.

"Bloody hell," John exclaimed, one hand going to rub gingerly at the section of his spinal column that was currently shrieking with pain. Wanda reached out and shoved him again, and again his back crashed against the exact same spot. "Oy! Stop pushing me, you-"

"How dare you?!" she snarled, voice starting out low but rising to a furious shout. John stared at her, then scoffed.

"How dare _I_?" He curled his lip at her, and did his very best not to think about those very same lips and where they'd been seconds before. "You're the one what was practically raping me just then! Your hands were everywhere!" She opened her mouth, snapped it shut again, and blushed the brightest, most shocking shade of red he'd ever seen. While most of his brain decided that the color actually made her eyes even more stunning, John forced the rest of his mind to focus on catching her arm by the wrist before she could hit him again. Wanda jerked her hand backwards, and after a stubborn few seconds of tug-o-war, he let her go.

"Well," Wanda snapped, backing away, "my hands are now none of your business. And neither is the rest of me!" John sneered.

"I'm so sure, darling," he ground out, now every bit as angry as she was. Who was she to toy around with him like that, then kiss him like _that_, and then act like it was all _his_ fault?!

"Don't call me darling," Wanda hissed, turning on her heel to stalk away. "You're lucky I don't- You're lucky I don't hurt you _more_!" John laughed, ignoring the hint of desperation he caught in his own voice, and called after her.

"You couldn't handle it if you tried, you crazy bitch!"

She stopped dead.

Very slowly, Wanda turned around.

"What did you call me?" she asked, her tone dangerously calm.

John, suddenly recalling exactly with whom he was dealing, coughed.

"Well," he said quickly, deciding that pride was not worth much if you were in too many different pieces to enjoy it, "we could just skip that and go back to when I said you were gorgeous."

"I'm not crazy," Wanda told him, and John was startled to see a sudden vulnerability in those fierce eyes. He thought briefly about being angry with her. _Oh, fuck that_, his more intelligent side declared.

"I know you're not," he said, and took a chance, stepping closer. He kept his hands at his sides, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Well, good," she said abruptly, lifting her hands and then dropping them again, suddenly awkward. "Just so you know that."

"You _are_ beautiful, though," he added, and risked a half-smile. Wanda frowned.

"Stop that. And weren't we just yelling?" He waved a hand dismissively.

"I'm way too volatile for grudges, love; ask anybody. I'd much rather convince you that…" And he stepped closer, still not trying to reach for her, dropping his voice, "…you are possibly the most amazing-looking girl I've ever seen." She swallowed. She was looking at him as if he were the panther and she the naked jungle child, and he found that it turned him on more than he'd thought possible. Well. Maybe not as much as when she'd been looking at him like he was the ice cream and she was the spoon. Suddenly, John thought he understood why she'd reacted the way she had.

And so he wasn't entirely surprised when, without another word, she turned and speed-walked away.

xxxxxxx

"So how'd it go?"

"It was a disaster!" Wanda turned, pinching the phone between her shoulder and ear, and slammed a fist against the wall of her bedroom. "Ow! Goddamnit!"

"Hey, come on, what happened?" She sighed, dropping to her bed to nurse her injured hand.

"It went great," she began, examining her bloodied knuckles. "Everything went just like you said it would. I was _perfect_," she added sarcastically. "A little _too_ perfect, apparently." Wanda could imagine Rogue's frown on the other end.

"And that means…?"

"Like I said, it went great… until he kissed me."

"He kissed you?!"

"Yes! That's what I've been trying to tell you! It was horrible!"

"…Horrible?"

"Well, no, it was actually- But that's not the _point_, Rogue, the point is that the whole idea of your stupid plan was to get him to be under _my_ thumb for once!"

"Stupid plan, huh?"

"Yeah, whatever." Rogue coughed, hiding a chuckle.

"Honestly, sugar, I think you came out on top here. You obviously know how to push his buttons, if you know what I mean, and you left him standing there with what I'll bet is a real hot need for a real cold shower." Wanda snorted, but then had to admit that that was true.

"I just wasn't ready for it, is all," she said finally, and flexed her bruised fingers. "Besides, he _grabbed_ me." At that, Rogue did laugh out loud.

"Wanda, even _I_ know that's _supposed_ to happen." Wanda raised a brow, sensing an opening to aim this somewhat embarrassing exchange away from her.

"So you're saying you'd be just fine with our favorite card-slinging Cajun waltzing up and grabbing you around the waist?" Rogue choked, and Wanda smirked to herself.

"Remy Lebeau can go screw himself for all I care," the Southerner said quickly.

"Oh, I think there's something else you'd like him to-"

"Wanda Maximoff, that ain't fair! If you can deal the heat, you've got to take it, too!"

"Hey," Wanda said, flinging up her hands and nearly dropping the phone. "I can take the heat. I am the master of the heat."

"So I see," Rogue pointed out suggestively. Then she coughed. "Or, no, actually, so I _don't_ see, Miss Kissing Is Horrible."

"Kissing isn't horrible," Wanda objected before thinking. "I'll have you know he's a great kisser."

Rogue let her stew in that for a moment.

"I dislike you," Wanda said finally. "A lot."

"Just admit you're crushing on Pyro, girl," Rogue responded with a tinge of exasperation. "Hell, from the way you've been acting, if you were me I'd go ahead and admit I was in _love_ with him."

"I'm not in love with him! And, thank god, I'm not you."

"Yeah, so few of us are. But the point still stands."

"I'm about as in love with him as you are with Gambit," Wanda threw down, the flaw in that reasoning not really occurring to her until after she'd made the challenge. There was a long pause. Then, Rogue sighed.

"Well, then, we're both screwed."

xxxxxxxx

"So how'd it go?"

"It was fantastic, mate," John crowed, slapping Remy on the back. Then he frowned. "Hang on, how'd you know?"

"Piotr," Remy answered simply.

"Right. Well, anyway…" He leaned down and spoke quietly, as if that could hide his excitement. "She kissed me! Well, I kissed her. But she kissed me back! And then she hit me."

"A slap is okay," Remy said reassuringly. "It shows she cares."

"Yeah, well, I should be so lucky. It was more like three, uh, bulldozers to the chest."

"Ah."

"But, I swear I got through to her in the end," John added, flopping down on the couch beside the Cajun.

"You two have meaningful, soul-searching conversation while watchin' the sunset?"

"No," John sighed, "she ran off." Remy stared at him, one brow raised.

"_Mon ami_, I think that our definitions of the phrase 'got through to her in the end' are vastly different."

"No, trust me," John said, his grin fading. Remy nodded slowly, leaning back against the couch.

"Whatever you say, Johnny."

xxxxxx

**So you know what's sort of incredible? And don't take this to be a whiny!author stint, but-- over 500 people have read this story at the time I'm posting this, and only 14 of them left reviews. So whichever of you are the ones who've been doing that, you should feel pretty damn special, I should say. Thank you!**


	7. Plotting Plan B

**A/N: Wow. You guys, I'm impressed. After I noted that thing about the weird disproportion between readers and reviewers, the number of reviews per chapter doubled! Awesome! Everyone who reviewed, you should feel proud. **

**Also, I would like to tell you all that I am, above all, open to suggestion. In the comments, one person asked to see Toad-jealousy (always fun) and Pietro's reaction, so I have that for you here. Many others wanted to see more Romy, and though I was already going to put that in, I think you'll agree that this chapter is pure Romy amazingness. So if you want to see something, a particular scene, interaction, whatever, just drop me a line and I'll see what I can do. :)**

xxxxxxxxxx

Wanda held out a long-sleeved emerald sweater, made of material thin enough to be nearly transparent.

"What about this?" Rogue took it, tugging at the hem.

"I dunno; it's a little… green…"

"I'm glad you can perceive color so well." The Southern girl gave Wanda a dirty look, but slung the shirt over her arm.

"If I buy this, you have to get something just as unlikely."

"Nothing pink. No frills. I don't do lace, either." Rogue nodded in agreement, and rifled through the row of hangers. They were in one of the smaller mall clothing stores, one that sold mainly the more esoteric brands, but shopping was only a ruse. After the mildly disastrous phone conversation the night before, the two had decided that something needed to change. Namely, that they needed a Plan B.

"So," Wanda said, watching a bit nervously as Rogue plucked out a bright yellow top with jagged red slashes, "what are your thoughts on kidnapping?" Rogue scoffed without looking away from the shirt, which she was studying with a kind of grim horror.

"I know a few people who'd deserve the hell out of it."

"Oh, please," Wanda said, and snatched the yellow shirt from Rogue's hand to shove it back on the rack. "We're past that."

"Ok, fine," Rogue admitted gruffly, "I wouldn't mind givin' _Gambit_ a bit of his own medicine." She paused, half-pulling out a floaty blue thing that might, in someone's deranged mind, have passed for a skirt. "No," she muttered, and put it back.

"I bet I could find us a warehouse," Wanda mused, absently going through the rack herself. "My family is big on those."

"So, what, we grab 'em, chuck 'em somewhere and…?"

"I don't know, torture them until either they fall madly in love with us or we kill them and get over it?"

"Your logic is not like our Earth logic."

"So dazzle me with your own plan, Herr Freud." Rogue tossed a shirt at Wanda and put her hands on her hips.

"I say we get 'em drunk." Wanda, distracted from shaking out the top, shook her head firmly.

"Oh, no. No. Alcohol and I are not bosom friends." Rogue held up her hands, the green sweater bunching around her elbow.

"Don't flip, Wanda, I'm not done. I didn't say _we_ had to get drunk."

"Oh," Wanda said, and then smiled. "_Oh_." Rogue nodded.

"That's right."

"What if they get smashed and say something like…"

"Well," Rogue picked up, "it'll go one of three ways. Either they'll admit they want us bad, they'll vow their unending love, or they'll destroy the place and pass out." Wanda nodded thoughtfully.

"So we're hoping for all three?"

"Right. Wait! No! Not the last one!" Wanda sighed.

"God, you X-Men never have any fun, do you?" She looked down at the shirt Rogue had chosen. It looked all right from the front, though, granted, it was white. Sleeveless, too. Then, she turned it over. "Rogue, this shirt has no back."

"It has a back," Rogue corrected, pointing. "Sort of."

The back, it turned out, consisted of a few straps that left more skin bare than some people showed swimming. Wanda turned, trying to look at herself from all angles, and cleared her throat.

"Ah, Rogue," she called, "I can't wear a bra with this."

"That's the point," the other girl called back from the next dressing room over. "How d'you think we're gonna convince 'em to come drinking with us?" Wanda's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. A slow, wicked smile crept across her face. Wanda Maximoff, after all, was not one to do things halfway.

"Good point. You, however, are going to need a little something more," she informed Rogue, stepping out of the fitting room. Rogue came out a moment later, the green top once again slung over her arm. She frowned.

"I can't wear this without a bra, but all my underwear is… not the kind of thing you'd want to wear under a see-through shirt." Wanda smiled.

"That's why we're going to Victoria's Secret."

xxxxxxx

It wasn't until the morning after the incident at the bridge that anyone from the Brotherhood house picked up on Wanda's strange mood. And even after they did, it wasn't until nearly noon that someone figured out _why_.

"Pietro, c'mon, man, you gotta be on my side with this!" Toad slammed his fist against the kitchen table, and then winced. Pietro, looking bored, shook his head and looked up from the slice of cold pizza he was inhaling.

"With what? What are we talking about, again?" He was speaking slower than usual, sleepiness and the four tablets of allergy medicine he'd consumed in an attempt to stave off the summer nose-running that always seemed to plague him keeping him at a relatively normal speed. Toad, exasperated, pointed dramatically at the hallway that led upstairs, where the bedrooms were.

"With _Wanda_! Your _sister_, yo!"

"What about her?" Pietro laughed. "If you're trying to get me to set you guys up again-"

"Naw, she won't have time for that. She and Pyro are too busy settin' up a love shack, broski!" Toad thought that was a sufficiently horrifying way of putting it, but Pietro just stared at him. Then,

"One: never call me 'broski' again. Two: you're nuts. Three: you're pissing me off, so you might want to-"

"I'm _serious_," Toad interrupted, and the disgust on his grayish face gave Pietro at least a moment's pause. Toad sat down across from the taller boy. "Okay, so here's what I know. The day you guys drank most of the alcohol in Bayville? Yeah, she said Pyro was following her around and she didn't care. Then the other day he comes in here and I find them in her room, and she's got her shirt off, and his hands are all over her! And then she comes back from wherever she was last night with that look on her face, and I try to give her a hello kiss and she doesn't even hex me! She just dodges!" Out of breath, Toad stared at Pietro pleadingly.

The white-haired boy was frowning, silvery blue eyes narrowed.

"So you're saying Wanda has a thing with Johnny."

"Yes," Toad said, annoyed. "I'm saying Wanda has a- a _thing_- with that _asshole_." He waited for the explosion.

When it came, it was not… quite what he'd been expecting.

Pietro burst out laughing, slapping one hand against the table and rocking back in his chair. His face reddened, chest heaving, and tears glistened at the corners of his eyes.

"Oh," he managed to gasp out, before breaking into another peel of laughter, "Oh, god, that's _brilliant_! That's the best thing I've heard all day!" Toad's jaw dropped. Pietro, seeing the shorter boy's shock, let out one last loud guffaw that dribbled into a chuckle, and shook his head. "Whew," he said, catching his breath. "Well, I can't _wait_ to see how this plays out. Hell, it's even better than watching Rogue and Remy!"

"You- You're not- You're _okay_ with this?!" Pietro grinned, a flash of the same wicked streak that had so recently been awoken in his twin glinting in his eyes.

"Are you kidding? It's going to be great! Wanda will have someone else to direct her I-was-a-teenage-psycho rage at, instead of yours truly, and do you have _any_ idea how hilarious it's going to be to watch them try to do _anything_ together? They're both insane!" He shook his head. "Besides, Wanda could take that kid apart if she wanted to, so it's not like I should _worry_," Pietro added, and it was obvious that his idea of things worth worrying about did not include such trivial things as which boy toy his sister kept.

Toad, who had been counting on Wanda's twin to be just as outraged at this atrocity as he was, deflated.

"Some brother you are," he muttered, slumping in his chair.

"Oh, yeah," Pietro said, grinning evilly as he got to his feet, "and maybe now she'll finally calm down a little. I hear getting all that sexual frustration resolved does wonders for your disposition!" After listening to Toad's anguished little shriek, Pietro sighed happily and strolled off to find Lance. He needed to borrow the Jeep and find someone to resolve his own bit of frustration. Wanda being with John was one thing, but let no one say the scary Goth twin got more action than her Adonis brother. Then, just as he was preparing to leave, an idea struck Pietro.

Pulling out his cell phone, he smirked as he dialed.

"Hello? Piotr? Is John there?"

xxxxxxxx

"I'm not buying these."

"They're perfect!"

"Since when are you an expert?"

"I don't have to be; Christ, Rogue, if I didn't have this little problem I'd hit on you myself."

"Well, thanks, but I'm still not buying them."

"Come on. It's not like he's going to see them."

"The whole point of us bein' here is that he _is_ going to see them, he and everybody else we come across!"

"Fine, that's true, but they're still perfect."

"Yeah, if I was a slut."

"Look at my back! That's right, all of it!"

"Well, but-"

"We are sirens. We are sexy, enticing sirens, and no one can resist us."

"God, Wanda, why don't we just date each other? Wouldn't that take care of all these issues?"

"If only it were that easy."

"Damn straight."

"Exactly." Rogue snorted, then sighed. She did a little pirouette and raised a brow at her reflection.

"Well, I guess…" The bra was black, and lacy, and sheer, and showed pretty obviously beneath the green top. The effect was a very sexy one, she had to admit, but…

"You guess right," Wanda finished for her. "Go in there and take it off, and then we can go pay." Rogue went into the fitting room of the mall's tiny Victoria's Secret, and Wanda turned to lean against one wall. She closed her eyes, imagining what John drunk might look like. Would he be one of the loud, goofy, amusing drunks? She suspected he would. Remy's moves, on the other hand, probably only got smoother. She wondered if it was even possible for the Cajun to get drunk at all.

"You look like you're thinkin' real hard about something, _belle_," came a voice that, for a second, she actually thought was coming from her own mind, the timing was that freakishly exact. Then, her eyes flew open and she stared, startled, at the grinning face of Remy Lebeau himself. And, right beside him, that of St. John Allerdyce.

"I _really_ hope you're shopping for yourself," Pyro said, glancing around the store. Wanda made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and for a long moment she couldn't quite look away. Then, Remy cleared his throat.

"You got my girl stashed away in here somewhere?"

"She's not your girl," Wanda said, thankful for the interruption. _Yet_, she added silently, and smirked at him. Lebeau seemed a bit taken aback by the expression.

"Y'know, you really look like your brother when you do that."

"What are you doing here?" Wanda asked, ignoring that. John shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Well, funny he should mention Pietro," he said, drawing out the words. "Because guess who we got a call from just this morning?"

"I'll kill him," Wanda muttered to herself. And it was at that moment that Rogue, completely unaware of their new companions, stepped out of the fitting room with the black bra and a pair of matching silk panties hooked on one finger.

"I think I'll get them both," she started, eyes going to Wanda without really registering the others. Then, she stopped, and very carefully turned her head. Remy smiled winningly. John took one hand out and gave her a cheeky little wave. Rogue said nothing, and looked at Wanda with one sleek brow raised. Wanda shrugged.

"Those are nice, _chere_," Remy said to Rogue, nodding at the underwear in her hand. "Remy bets they'll look even better where they should be."

"Yeah, well, Rogue bets Remy will look even better with a broken nose." He laughed.

"Impossible; I'm perfect already. And thanks for using my real name, _ma belle_; I was beginning to think you didn't know it." He reached out and snagged the panties from Rogue's finger, who yelped but managed to refrain from snatching them back. Wanda watched the exchange with interest, though most of her attention was focused on making sure it looked like _all_ of her attention was away from Pyro. John, however, looked equally amused by his teammate's antics, and stepped back to enjoy the show.

"Give 'em back," Rogue said, with admirable restraint. Remy held the panties out of her reach, though she refused to even try to grab for them. He pulled them back and inspected them closely, and with every second that he held them, Rogue's face got a little bit redder.

"Very silky," he said after a moment. "I'm sure they feel nice."

"Bite me."

"Sure," Remy replied, and in a movement so fast that Rogue could do nothing more than stand and look stunned, he stepped forward, pressed the thin silk panties against Rogue's mouth, and kissed her. Catching her lower lip, he bit it gently and then pulled away. Wanda clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at the look on Rogue's face. John didn't bother with that much subtlety.

Remy, ignoring the both of them, handed Rogue her underwear with a gallant bow. She took them numbly, still staring.

"You better buy those panties," Remy said smugly. "I think I got them wet."

**Aaaand yeah, you know by now what I would love for you to do...**


	8. Let's Dance

**A/N: Wow, this is a hella long chapter. At least, it feels like it. But, I just wanted to say that I did a quick sketch of John and Wanda for this story during class a few days ago (yeah, that's how I spend my time...) and I put it on deviantart if anyone's interested. The quality isn't the best evar, since I had to take a picture of it with my computer's camera, but I still think it's fun: http://_wingedraksha._deviantart._com/_art/_Pyro-and-Wanda-_111471108 (Just get rid of the _ when you type it in)  
**

**I'd also like to thank all my reviewers; those of you who've been in on this since the beginning and the newbies. You seriously make my day. You rock like rocking horses. You- okay, I'll stop now. I would go through and respond to each of you personally, but I have the feeling you'd prefer to just get to the story...  
**

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"Oh my god," Rogue said, letting her head fall back against the headrest of the borrowed Institute car she had used to pick up Wanda earlier that day.

"Need me to pinch you again?"

"No, I know it happened." She wrinkled her nose. "I got the memories to prove it. Not just mine." Wanda coughed lightly.

"Well, don't worry. You'll get him back for it," she reminded the other girl, trading off for the role of Reassurance Giver.

"Damn right I will," Rogue said darkly, and rolled her head towards Wanda. "You sure you want to do this?" Wanda scoffed.

"After letting Remy get away with that little stunt, and letting John just stand there and laugh about it?" She neglected to mention the fact that _she'd _just stood there and laughed about it, too, although at least she'd had the decency (and the intelligence) to cover it up. "Besides. Sparky still thinks he won."

"I think Sparky's not thinking that coherently when it comes to you, actually," Rogue put in.

"You'd be surprised," Wanda said, frowning. "He's smarter than you'd expect. And not nearly as easily played."

"Well," Rogue sighed, drawing it out and shivering to herself. "We'll just see about that." Wanda reached for the shopping bag on the floor of the car, and opened her door to get out. Glancing back at Rogue, she saw the other girl lift a gloved hand to her lips, and had to resist a smile at the now-unveiled wonder on the Southerner's pale face. As soon as Rogue realized Wanda was looking, however, she immediately scowled.

"Just because I- _feel_ things about that swamp rat doesn't give him the right to… to steal my underpants like that!"

"But the kiss was okay?" At that, Rogue broke into a grin.

"Oh, honey, when you can't touch _nobody_, a kiss from Darth Vader would be great." She paused. "But yeah. The kiss was okay." Wanda shook her head and headed for the boarding house, bag in hand.

They had six hours to blow, and then Plan B would begin.

xxxxxxx

"I cannot help but think that this is a bad idea," Piotr said calmly, and John flapped a hand at him.

"You're not paid to think," he said, and continued to draw the razor carefully down the left side of his jaw. Piotr smiled slightly.

"The thing is, John, neither are you."

"You sayin' we're stupid?" Remy asked from across the hall, where he was trying to decide which set of gloves he should wear.

"I'm saying… yes."

"That's not very nice, mate," John muttered, distracted. He angled his jaw and tried to see if he'd missed any spots, but the lighting in the bathroom wasn't the best and he couldn't really tell.

"Look at this objectively," Piotr tried, spreading his arms beseechingly in the middle of the hallway. He was so wide at the shoulders that his pinky fingers touched the wall on either side. "You humiliated these girls, both of whom have the power to kill you in several interesting ways. Then, instead of threats or outright attacks, they… invite you to a club?" He looked at John. "The last time Wanda invited you somewhere, my friend, what happened?"

"She kissed me," John said, pleased, and gave Piotr a significant look. "So I think-"

"No," Piotr argued, "you kissed her. After she toyed with you. And then she left you."

"Ok, granted, but-"

"And Remy, what happened the last time you were alone with Rogue?"

"Nothin' too bad," Remy said defensively, shrugging into a black jacket.

"Wolverine tried to kill you, yes?"

"Yeah, well, Wolvie ain't gonna be there."

"And you know this because…?"

"You know what, Pete?" John finished shaving and slammed the razor down onto the sink. "I think we can handle ourselves. We're the best of the best, after all." Remy grinned and nodded. Piotr sighed.

"Do not come crying to me afterwards, boys," he said at last, and padded quietly away. Remy glanced across the hall at John.

"Think he's got a point?"

"O'course he does," John said scornfully.

"That's what I thought." There was a pause, and then both Acolytes shrugged and continued to prepare.

xxxxxxx

"Why are you spending so much time with her, anyway? Isn't she, like, scary? And evil? And scary?" Kitty was perched on Rogue's bed as the Goth brushed her hair, and Rogue made an effort not to sigh.

"She's not that bad, Kit. 'Sides, _I_ used to be scary and evil, remember?"

"Who says you're not?" Rogue rolled her eyes in the mirror, and Kitty smiled. "Kidding, kidding." She bounced a bit on the mattress. "It's just, you're acting all…"

"All what?"

"I dunno, like, secretive? Or something." Rogue scoffed.

"Right, because normally I'm such an open book."

"You know what I mean." Kitty bit her lip, frowning. "This doesn't have anything to do with…?"

"Mm."

"Hey," Kitty said, a little annoyed now. "We're supposed to be friends. You can talk to me, you know." Rogue put down the brush and looked at her in the mirror.

"You wouldn't approve," she said dryly.

"Try me," Kitty challenged, folding her arms.

"Ok," Rogue said with a shrug. "I'm going out tonight to pick up Wanda. Then we're going to go meet up with Gambit and Pyro and go clubbing." There was a long silence.

"Damn it, Rogue," Kitty said, hurt, "if you don't want to tell me, at least don't go and _lie_ about it." Rogue laughed, and Kitty stood abruptly. "Fine," she said. "I'm out of here."

"No," Rogue objected, getting to her feet. "Sorry. Kitty, wait." She grabbed the other girl by the arm, and Kitty swung around to face her, still upset. Rogue composed herself. "That was the truth. Wanda and I are going out with Johnny and the swamp rat." Kitty laughed, and then when Rogue didn't, stopped very suddenly. Her eyes widened.

"Seriously?"

"Like, totally," Rogue deadpanned. Kitty phased out of Rogue's grip, walked over to the bed, and sat down very slowly.

"As in, a date?" At that, Rogue's lips twisted smugly.

"Not exactly. And I might need your help." She sat down beside her fellow X-Man, and began to talk.

xxxxxxxx

"Where you off to, Stripes?"

"A movie," Rogue said, not looking up from her hands as she tugged her favorite black biker gloves on. They ended just past the wrist, leaving a small, thrilling square of bare skin on the backs of her hands, and went quite well with the rest of her ensemble. Not, of course, that Logan could appreciate that; Rogue was well-covered with a dark gray windbreaker zipped up to the chin.

"With who? When will you be back? What movie?" Logan snagged her by the wrist, and finally she looked him in the eye. He frowned.

"With Lance," she said, not hesitating. "Before midnight. I don't know yet." Logan let her go, the corners of his mouth turning comically downwards in confusion.

"You're going out with Rocky?"

"It's a favor," another voice said from behind him. Logan wheeled around. Kitty Pryde smiled brightly, already dressed in her light pink pajamas. "For me."

"A favor?" Logan asked, looking from Rogue to Kitty and back again. "What kind of favor?" He narrowed his eyes. "And I don't want you getting involved with those Brotherhood jokers, Rogue. One," he added, with a dark look at Kitty, "is enough."

"Oh, I'm not," Rogue assured him. "Lance and I are still friends from before I came here. He'll talk to me. I'm going to find out exactly what he thinks about Kitty, and whether-" Logan held up his hands, looking mildly disgusted.

"I don't wanna hear about it, Stripes." He sighed. "Fine. But no funny business, and if you get back any later than twelve, I'll make sure it doesn't _matter_ what he thinks about her." Kitty swallowed, but as soon as Logan glanced back at her, the bright smile was firmly back in place.

"That won't be a problem," she said lightly, and then looked at Rogue. "Will it, Rogue?" There was a new edge to her voice that Rogue could hardly miss, and the Southern girl nodded quickly.

"O'course not." She, too, smiled at Logan. "I'll just get going, then."

"You taking one of the cars?"

"That's okay, right?"

"Long as it ain't my bike."

"I would never steal your bike, Logan." He snorted, waved a hand at her, and turned to go back to the den. Kitty watched him go, and then rushed over to Rogue and grabbed her by the hand, careful to avoid the patch of bared skin.

"Be careful," she said intently, not letting Rogue look away.

"I will. Thanks, Kit-kat." Kitty backed away, smiling lopsidedly.

"Just remember it next time I want to sneak out somewhere."

"Always," Rogue said, grinning, and strolled off towards the garage.

xxxxxxxx

Wanda leaned towards the mirror, carefully smoothing on a coat of crimson lipstick. She had considered doing without makeup, since generally her lips were red enough not to really need it, but when she put on the white shirt with a pair of tight black pants, she realized that the combination made her face look… well, sort of washed out. She pressed her lips together and stood back, studying the effect. Her trademarked black boots over the black slacks, the front hem of the white shirt dipping down to brush against the tops of her thighs before smoothing over her stomach and breasts, a thin strap wrapping around her throat to keep it from falling down. She turned, inspecting the two even thinner straps that spanned her back, keeping the shirt in place. Her eyes, lined with dark kohl and silvery eyeshadow, were wide and shining against her fair skin. The red lipstick was the final touch.

"Freddy said you- whoa," Lance broke off, leaning past her door to stare. Wanda turned and smiled at him, which seemed to scare him just a bit. He swallowed, forcing his eyes back to her face. "Ah, nice look. Anyway, Freddy said you were going out?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing," Lance said quickly, holding up his hands and stepping fully into her room. "I just wanted to know if you were planning on, uh, borrowing my car."

"I've got a ride," Wanda said, glancing at the alarm clock by her bed. Amazingly enough, it still worked. Rogue would be there any minute.

"Okay. Cool. Have… Have fun," Lance finished uncertainly, and backed out of her room. Wanda watched him go, and decided that he had his own curious brand of charm. She wondered if the X-girl, Rogue's friend, was still involved with him. Probably. Wanda, in a fleeting moment of goodwill, hoped that Lance wouldn't be enough of an idiot to ruin things with the Shadowcat all over again.

Then, she heard a loud knock at the front door, and made her way downstairs. Toad, sitting in the kitchen with some sort of food that she didn't really want to know anything more about in one hand, glanced up as she passed and then did an exaggerated double-take.

"Damn," he muttered, but Wanda was out the door before he could so much as get up.

xxxxxxx

John glanced around. All he could see were people, mostly humans, he was sure, and they were all loud and wild and, most importantly, not Wanda.

"Are they here yet?"

"I don't think so," Remy said, also scanning the crowd. The club had a dance floor, which was packed, as well as a section of tables where you could sit and yell over the music with your drinks from the wide standing bar. The two Acolytes leaned against one wall nearest to the door, avoiding the bulk of the human crush.

A girl with long blond hair swayed over to Remy and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, handsome," she said, and John was a bit surprised at how not-slurred she sounded. Then again, he supposed Remy _was_ a good-looking bloke… "Want to dance?"

"I'm waitin' for someone, _cherie_," Remy said smoothly, and removed her hand from his chest. She frowned.

"Well, you don't have to get all bitchy about it."

"Hey," John interrupted, and she looked at him at first with a glare and then with growing interest.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," she said, and smiled. "You don't look as uptight as your _friend_," she added with a wrinkle of the nose for Remy's benefit. "How about it?"

"How about you get lost?" he asked, and his tone was so polite that it took her a second to realize what he'd actually said.

"Why, you-"

"Hey, boys," came a throaty voice from behind the blond. John looked up, and his jaw dropped.

Wanda stood with one hand on her hip, fingers bunching up the hem of her white top to reveal a good few inches of smooth bared skin. Her sapphire eyes flashed, ignoring the blond girl completely, and her crimson lips curled up in a predatory smile. At her side, Rogue ran one gloved hand through her hair, the action pulling her emerald top tight against the sheer black bra beneath. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Remy's lips part.

"I was _talking_ here," the blond said, affronted. She looked from John to Wanda, and her mouth turned down. "So why don't you just-"

"I'm going to tell you a story," Wanda said lightly, as if talking to a small child. "Once there was a girl in a bar. She messed with the wrong people. She got hurt." The blond sneered, only the slightest flicker of fear showing in her large green eyes. Rogue smirked, and in a flash of motion so fast it was a blur, Wanda's hand darted out and closed around the blond's slender throat. She shoved the other girl up against the wall between John and Remy, ignoring her startled gasp. "The moral of the story is," Wanda continued as if nothing was happening, "do _not_ fuck with me." With that, she tossed the girl aside like a rag doll. The blond stumbled, straightened, rubbing at her throat, and with an angry stream of curses, stalked off into the crowd. Remy clapped slowly, and John just stared as Wanda brushed off her hand on her thigh. She turned to him, smiled, and held that same hand out.

"Let's dance."


	9. Working Around It

**A/N: Hopefully this chapter doesn't seem out of character for Rogue/Remy, but I figure they have way more of a history than John and Wanda, so it'll be easier for them to admit what they feel.**

**OH. AND. This is, remember, a T-rated story, so the dancing scene here is about as sexy as it's gonna get. Just for the record. But I think it's pretty sexy, so that should be okay.  
**

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John took her hand and stepped forward, leaving Remy to handle Rogue on his own. Wanda turned and wove through the spill of people entering the club, trailing him behind her, their arms stretching as she moved faster than he could follow. He slipped between two college-aged girls and found himself suddenly mere inches away from Magneto's daughter. She'd found a small open space on the dance floor, just clear enough for the two of them to move a few inches to either side, if they were close. They were close.

Wanda wrapped her arms around John's neck, letting her head fall back as he slid his hands down her waist to her hips and tugged her up against him, her stomach pressing against his as her back arched. She lifted her head and smiled at him, chin lowering, eyes hooding. John felt one corner of his mouth curl up in answer, and smoothed his palms around her waist to her back, inching the fingers of one hand up her bare spine and watching her eyes flicker hotly as he guided her hips with his other hand in slow, sensuous circles. John dipped his head to her shoulder, his lips hovering just above the hollow of her collarbone, and felt her shiver as his breath danced across her skin. The shirt wasn't low-cut in the front, but it was thin and tight and he could see the hardened nubs of her nipples in the flashing reddish club light.

"You want me," he said, just loud enough for her to hear. Wanda bent her head and caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth, then let go and whispered,

"Maybe." John felt that quick bite down to the humming soles of his feet, the vibrations of the music reverberating through his bones and rippling through the waves of lust that the feel of her own breath on his face sent through his stomach. He laughed, pulling away, and lifted a hand to trail up Wanda's arm, following it behind his own neck and catching her hand. He spun her tightly, holding onto her hand, folding her arms across her breasts as her back pressed against his chest. She broke his hold and raised her arms above her head, lazily twirling her wrists to the beat, matching the movement of her hips. John dropped his head and kissed the side of her neck, silently begging her to let her head fall back against his shoulder. She did it, eyes closed, and John slid his hands up her stomach beneath her shirt, extraordinarily aware of the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. With her head back, at this angle, he could see her breasts pressing against the white fabric, his hands smoothing up the shirt towards her ribcage, her taut stomach disappearing into the tight black pants.

"God, Wanda," he breathed, and she smiled, eyes still closed.

"Yes," she said, and whirled to face him, her hands dropping to slide just beneath the waistband of his jeans. His breath caught and she leaned close enough that when she spoke, her lips brushed against his. "I think it's you who wants me," she murmured, darkening eyes locked on his. John threw every hint of caution or pride out of his head and kissed her, one hand going to the back of her head, the other pressing against the small of her back until he could feel every clench of muscle in her abdomen against his own.

This time, Wanda didn't push him away. Her hands tightened on his hips, two fingers of each resting between the waistband of his boxers and his bare skin, holding him against her as he slid one thigh between her legs. She gasped into his mouth and John took the chance to deepen the kiss, tilting his head and slanting his mouth against hers until there was no way to tell where she ended and he began. She pressed herself against him, thighs tightening around his leg, and John groaned. He could feel everything, every part of her against every part of him. Her hands raked up beneath his shirt, exploring his back, dipping into the slight indent the column of his spine created, sliding around to trace across his stomach. They broke apart, breathing hard, and stared.

John smiled crookedly.

"Bet you've never been kissed like _that_ before." She let out a short laugh that was more stunned than amused, and pulled away a little.

"Drink," she said hoarsely. John nodded. This time, he did the leading.

xxxxxxx

Wanda let John take her hand, following him through the dancers and wanderers until they reached the standing bar. He bought her something, water, soda, something non-alcoholic because she did manage to specify that much, and bought something else for himself that she was fairly certain was not nearly so innocent. She let the drink, when it was slammed onto the bar in front of her, send a cold wet jolt through her system. _Get ahold of yourself, girl,_ she thought. _Remember this is all part of the plan_. It hadn't quite been part of the plan to kiss him like he was the heroin and she was the addict, but she figured that was okay. Improvisation was good, right?

She pressed the glass against her forehead and closed her eyes, aware of him leaning against the bar beside her. She struggled to remember exactly what the point of this entire thing was supposed to be. Get the better of him? Prove that she could wrap him around her finger just as easily as he could do to her? _Get him to admit it's more than lust, _something inside her whispered_. Because you can't unless he does, first. Not to him, and not to yourself. Not really._

Wanda jumped when John touched her shoulder, and looked at him sheepishly. He grinned at her, cocking his head and raising his glass. She thought for a second that he was going to toast her, but then he just downed the amber liquid and slapped the glass on the bar for a refill.

"You okay?" he called over the noise, leaning in. She smiled nervously, wondering where the hell all that confidence had gone. Jesus Christ, she'd had him begging her for it with his eyes a minute ago, and now she could barely look at him? What was that?!

"I'm fine," Wanda lied, and took another sip of what had turned out to be Coke. "I, ah, I've… obviously never done this before." He laughed.

"Done what? Seduced a bloke in a bar?"

"Yes," she said, doing everything in her power not to blush. Honestly, it was ridiculous to be blushing at him after _that_, wasn't it?

"Well, I wouldn't worry, love," he said, knocking back half of his refill. "You're pretty damn good at it." She chuckled, and took another slow sip. She was feeling better now, actually, calmer. More in control. She watched him, watched his pupils grow until there was only a thin ring of blue around them, steady on her.

"What're you drinking?" she asked, for something to say.

"Jack Daniels, my old friend," he replied, looking at the glass in his hand and inspecting the amount of liquid left in it.

"Your 'old friend', huh? Do you often frequent bars?" John snorted.

"Sweetheart, I've been twenty-one since I was seventeen." Her lips twisted.

"Oh, good." He stepped away from the bar, finishing off the whiskey, carefully placing both palms against the wooden counter on either side of Wanda. Having effectively pinned her there, he leaned in and caught her eyes. She realized that they were in an almost exact remake of the scene on the bridge, their positions reversed.

"Not gonna run away again, right?" he asked, seeming to have the same memory. She shrugged, resting her elbows against the bar. He frowned. "Come on, sheila, give it up."

"Give what up?"

"This thing you've got going, this hot-and-cold bullshit."

"I'll do what I like," she said as evenly as she could, and ducked beneath his left arm before straightening and snagging his empty glass. "Give the man another," she called to the bartender, then turned to John, who was watching her with a mix of exasperation and curiosity.

"What are you up to?" he asked slowly, and now when he studied her it was far less dazedly than on the dance floor.

"Meaning?" She leaned against the bar again, scanning the crowd as if not quite interested in the conversation.

"You bring me here, you dance like some kind of nymph, you kiss me 'til we're both blind and then you… what? What's your game? You could hurt me if you wanted, but you're not. So…?"

"You'll see when I want you to see," Wanda replied, remembering that he responded to her bitchiness, at least. The bartender poured another shot into John's glass, and she lifted it, turning smoothly to offer it to him. John took the glass, shaking his head. He didn't say anything, but as he took the shot of whiskey, his eyes never left hers. There was something glowing there behind the ordinary blue shine, something that made Wanda think of hot breath on her neck and warm hands on her hips, of dark rooms and fire in the night. She swallowed, smoothing her hands down her thighs. His eyes followed the motion before, oh-so-slowly, tracing up her torso to her face.

Silence.

xxxxxxx

"You'd better not pull anything like that again," Rogue told Remy as he casually extended an arm across the top of her chair. They were sitting at one of the little tables, Rogue's nerves not quite steely enough to warrant actual dancing. There were too many people, too close, too uninhibited in their movements. She was beginning to regret wearing the gloves with holes in them, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Remy smiled at her, that crooked, sly, untrustworthy grin that she adored despite herself, and tilted his head.

"Like what? Remy got no idea what you're talkin' about." Rogue scoffed.

"Just because we're here doesn't mean I'm yours to fool around with as you please," she said, and flagged down one of the girls who was making rounds with a piece of paper in case anyone off the dance floor wanted drinks. "He'll have a Hurricane, and I'll have a strawberry daiquiri. Virgin."

"Not for long," Remy remarked, examining the nails of his left hand. Rogue rolled her eyes as the girl left.

"In your dreams, Cajun."

"All the time," he countered, not missing a beat. "So, Roguey, don't tell me you got me out here just to yell. That'd break a boy's heart."

"Like you have one." He clicked his tongue at her.

"You wound me, _cherie_." She couldn't hold the smile back then, and ducked her head as if that would hide it. Remy reached out and caught her chin with his thumb and one finger, thankfully gloved, turning her face towards his. He was still smiling, but it was a softer expression than it had been a moment before. "It's okay, Rogue," he told her, pulling back his hand. "_Vraiment_. You can smile and I won't tell nobody. Hell, you can even laugh."

"You're gonna have to be more amusing for that," Rogue said, but her eyes shone through her white bangs.

The girl with the paper appeared over Remy's shoulder, now holding a tray on which several drinks were very precariously balanced. She checked her list, placed two glasses on their table, took the bills that Remy held out between two fingers, and vanished just as smoothly as she'd come. Remy took a big sip of his drink, toasting the glass at Rogue.

"Nice choice."

"I figured you'd see the irony."

"Just 'cause I'm from New Orleans doesn't mean I'll laugh at that touristy crap."

"It was called a Hurricane before Katrina, Lebeau." He shrugged and took another sip. Rogue drank some of her daiquiri, enjoying the sweet fruity taste. Remy's eyes were on her mouth as she worked the straw between her lips, and Rogue raised a brow at him.

"What?" he asked, lifting the hand that wasn't resting oh-so-casually on the back of her chair in mock-indignation. "Can't a man enjoy the view?"

"Long as that's all you do."

"I make no promises, _chere_." He paused. "So, would the lady care to dance?"

"The lady would love to dance, but not as much as she'd love not killing anybody." Remy finished his Hurricane and waited for Rogue to get down to the ice in her daiquiri glass before standing and offering her his arm.

"I think we can work around it." Rogue looked at him, chewed on the inside of her lower lip, and then shook her head with a low laugh that made Remy want to grab her up right then and there. He waited, arm still extended, and held his breath... and then Rogue got to her feet and, very lightly, placed one hand on his forearm.

"After you, then, _M'sieu._"

xxxxxxx

"Maybe we should find a table."

"What?"

"Maybe we should find a table!" she repeated, almost yelling. There was an obnoxiously loud rock song playing now, and Wanda had to lean close to John's ear to even have a hope of being heard. He flung an arm out and somehow managed to catch her around the shoulders rather than smack her in the face, lifting his shot glass flamboyantly.

"Yes," he agreed, straightening away from the bar. "To the boothmobile, away!" Wanda worked her mouth to keep from grinning, and let him stumble off with her in tow. Things were working out after all.

They found one of the few booths, squeezed into one corner of the club. John slid in and pulled Wanda in after him, keeping his arm around her shoulder. As they sat, he shifted his grip to her waist, and it was all she could do to keep her self-composure as his hand idly toyed with the waistband of her pants.

"So," John said, stretching his feet onto the bench on the other side of the low table and leaning back against the corner made by the back of the booth and the wall, "how are you, love?" He sounded so earnest that Wanda snorted, and then quickly straightened her features as he gave her a hurt frown.

"I'm, ah, I'm good," she said, clearing her throat as he found one of her hands with his free one and started playing with her fingers.

"Give us a spark, then," he said, examining her index finger as if it were made of gold. Brows furrowing, Wanda sent a tiny shock of blue electricity up through her fingertip to zap at his thumb, and he yelped, then laughed. "That's amazin', that is," John affirmed, not letting go of her hand. He tugged at her index and middle fingers, bending them to watch the joints move.

"Yeah," Wanda agreed, "it's great until I fry your brains out." He scoffed, not bothering to look up. His other hand, she noticed with a gulp, was now firmly against her hip, three of the fingers well beneath the tight fabric of her pants.

"I'm not afraid of you," John told her, and finally dropped her hand. He looked at her. "Mos' people are, you know."

"I know." He grinned then, and suddenly there was a lighter in his hand. She had just enough time to register what it was and to think, _Where the hell did-_

And then there was fire twisting from his palm to her wrist, wrapping around her forearm with a light, pleasant heat and dancing up to her shoulder. She watched it, lips parted in awe, lost in the flickering beauty of it.

"See, I don' get burned," John said, slurring a bit, and reached out to draw one long finger down her arm, straight through the flames. "What hurts other people, it doesn' hurt me." Keeping his finger pressed against the crook of her elbow, he met her eyes again. "So I'm not afraid of you." He took his hand away and cupped it, gathering the fire into a ball that hovered just above his palm, then closed his hand into a fist and snuffed the flames.

Wanda stared at him, and then, very quickly, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He blinked, startled, and smiled at her with an unabashed sweetness that she had a feeling he would never show sober.

"What was that for?" She didn't answer, but looked down at the table for a long moment. Then, closing her eyes, Wanda took a deep breath.

"What do you want from me, John?" she asked, her heart pounding hard enough to hurt. She glanced at him, saw his mouth open, then close. She waited.

xxxxxxx

"You have a watch, right? We can't lose track of time."

"Relax, _bebe_, I've got it covered." Remy kept his voice quiet, but didn't take his hands away from Rogue's waist. They were on the veranda of the club, overlooking the street below, the cool night air breezing through their hair. Rogue had her hands on Remy's shoulders, but there was enough space between them to fit an entire other person. Or maybe twins. Rogue swallowed, looking at her feet. They were swaying slowly to the muted sounds of the music coming from inside, and she could feel his hands warm and steady on her waist, but she couldn't bring herself to relax. She couldn't ignore the part of her that was screaming that this was dangerous, that this was stupid, that-

"I'm sorry," Rogue burst out, moving to take her hands away. Remy let her, but refused to allow her to back away. He waited. "I'm sorry, I just… I don't think I…"

"You can do this, Rogue," he said quietly, all joking gone. "This is yours, and you can have it."

"No," she said, turning to dislodge his hands. She crossed her arms with a short, harsh sigh. "I'll hurt you. Or Wolverine will, when he smells you on me," she added with an attempt at a laugh. Remy stepped up behind her and took her shoulder, turning her gently. He took her hands, uncrossing her arms, and put them around his neck. She let him, hardly daring to breathe.

"There ain't nothin' you can do to Remy that he's not willing to take," he told her intently, and once again put his arms around her waist. "And the Canadian _cochon_ can _try_, if he wants." Rogue laughed, then stopped, surprised at the sound. Remy smiled at her. "See? It ain't bad, Roguey. Now shush," he finished, pulling her close. There were still a few inches of air between them, but as they moved in slow, swaying circles, those inches gradually disappeared. Finally, Rogue allowed herself to rest her head against Remy's shoulder, feeling the strength of him, the steady, rhythmic thudding of his heart against her chest.

"I was supposed to get you drunk," she said into his jacket, and felt the low rumble of his chuckle.

"_Ma chere_," Remy said, lowering his head to whisper into her hair, "I don't have to be drunk to tell you you're the only girl I'd wait for." She lifted her head and looked at him, keenly aware of the closeness of their two faces and the danger of her own poison skin.

"What if you'd have to wait forever?" she asked, hating the stupid sappiness of the question but needing more than anything to ask it. Remy smirked, eyes not leaving hers.

"I'd work around it," he said, and as Rogue's face split into a grin he leaned in and murmured, "You'll find I'm good at that."

**And we're almost done!**


	10. How To Say This

**A/N: Wow. So this started as a two-page one-shot, but I fell in love with it and it turned into a 20,000 word monster. And I can honestly say that this has been the easiest long story I've ever written. Thanks to all my reviewers; you guys rock, and you are my inspiration. Special thanks to Wanda W, Jessie07 and allyg1990, who were my very first reviewers, but believe me if I thought you'd actually read it, I would list out every single person who's left a comment and thank them. :)**

**P.S. Embarrassingly enough, it turns out that I accidentally put 'Vincent Creed' instead of 'Victor Creed' once, so thanks to The Duplicitous One for pointing that out....**

**xxxxxxxx**

She looked at him, searching. Wanda had half expected him to answer straight away with something witty (or as witty as he could manage in this state), or to just laugh at her and move on. Instead, he was looking right back at her, and suddenly John didn't look drunk at all.

Wanda had the sinking feeling that, just perhaps, he'd been practically sober all along.

The silence had gone on too long. Her stomach went cold, snakes of nervous discomfort weaving around each other until she felt a little sick. He wasn't going to answer. Not any answer she wanted to hear, anyway. Just as he opened his mouth for a second time, Wanda shook her head abruptly and gave a bright smile. It was fake, of course, but over the years she'd gotten fairly good at pretending to be all right.

"Never mind," she said, and scooted closer to him on the bench. There was a way to get out of this, Wanda knew, and even though she felt like doing nothing but running away, the smarter part of her brain insisted on solving the stupid little problem that she'd created. So she slid an arm around his neck and leaned towards him. "I know what I want from _you_, after all." And when she kissed him, and he kissed her back, Wanda simply did her best to pretend that her heart wasn't aching at all.

It was right about then that a hand fell on Wanda's shoulder, firm and without warning, and Rogue's voice sliced across the club's white noise.

"Peel yourself off and tell your boy goodnight," she said, lightly tugging Wanda away from John. "We gotta go." Wanda looked up at her, one arm still around John's neck, and took in the sight of Remy's fingers laced through those of Rogue's free hand. She had to smile, if faintly. Rogue and Remy stepped back to allow Wanda to slide out of the booth, and John followed quickly. He didn't try to grab her again, and when Wanda glanced back at him as she began to follow the other two across the club floor, he had the same bleary half-grin he'd worn when she'd been certain he was absolutely smashed. She narrowed her eyes, but decided that this was neither the time nor the place. If she'd even wanted to confront him about that. Which, to be quite frank, she did not. She didn't think she had the stomach for it.

As they exited the club, though, when John reached out and caught Wanda's hand, she flinched it away and then immediately tried to cover it up by running the hand in question through her hair. Rogue gave her a funny look, but Wanda just smiled and shook her head. She didn't want to explain to _anyone_ why she was all right with kissing Pyro but was now terrified of letting him see any genuine affection she might have for him. Remy and Rogue were holding hands, though, which meant the night must have gone as planned for one of them, at least…

"Whoa, there, Johnny," Remy said, as John swayed towards Wanda and nearly lost his balance. The Cajun reached out and steadied his friend by the shoulder, not letting go of Rogue's hand. John blinked at him, then looked at Wanda, who bravely met his gaze and gave her trademarked sneer.

"You should work on holding your liquor better," she said, taking what she saw as the safest route and just refusing to acknowledge what she'd said in the club or the way he'd responded. Or, rather, not responded. Remy chuckled, though his eyes lingered on Wanda's tight jaw before skipping over to John's dark eyes. Wanda, looking at those same eyes, couldn't quite tell if they were blurred or shuttered. Either way, she couldn't read them.

"C'mon, love," John protested into the wake of Remy's laugh, "give us a kiss goodnight, won't you?" Wanda hesitated, then stepped closer and put her hands against his cheeks, holding his face still. She leaned in until there was just barely any space between their mouths, and inhaled. He smelled of dark and clean and whiskey. John moved then, pushing his head forward just enough to press his lips against hers in a surprisingly chaste kiss. She let him go, stepped back, and glanced at Rogue.

"We'd better go, or you'll be late."

"Yeah," Rogue agreed, and turned to Remy. Wanda looked away, telling herself it was because she was Rogue's friend, and privacy was the polite thing to give them. (She was jealous.) When the other two were done doing whatever it was they were doing, Rogue laid a hand lightly against Wanda's waist and they started off towards Rogue's borrowed car. Wanda did not look back.

xxxxxxx

As soon as they were on Remy's bike, John holding on for dear life as the taller man rocketed around the corner, the act disappeared. Well, as much of it that had been an act, anyway. John had always been good at keeping his head when he drank, which surprised everyone who ever learned about it, but the truth was, he _liked_ being drunk. He liked not having to think about anything, worry about anything. So he played it up a little. Besides, a man can get away with a hell of a lot more when people think he's playful and intoxicated than when he's dead sober, John had found over the years.

However, when Wanda took one of the hottest evenings he'd ever had and flipped it right around in his face, asking him with that awful soft hesitant voice just what exactly he wanted from her, John had been taken completely by surprise. Maybe for the first time, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

She thought he was drunk. So anything he did say would be taken in the spirit of him being drunk. Maybe that was why she'd asked it in the first place, so she could let him down gently when he sobered up and avoid embarrassing him by asking while he was in full control of his emotions! Or maybe she genuinely wanted to know; maybe she cared about him, wanted something more than just the kissing and the dancing and the- off topic, off topic; and what _if _she wanted something more? Did he want that with her? The answer was a very firm _Hell yes, Johnny-boy_, but did he dare say it _now_, when she wouldn't trust him to even remember it in the morning? Maybe he should wait, and tell her when he was 'sober'. Or maybe he should just screw the whole thing and admit that he'd been nothing more than tipsy all along, which would probably mean he'd have to take his hand out of her pants, but he'd have to do that either way, so- _Damn it, John, just _say_ something!_

Too long, too long, he'd taken too long and just as he opened his mouth to let whatever was going to spill out go ahead and drip off his tongue and into the air for her to hear, Wanda broke him off with a bright, cold smile. And then she said something, but he didn't really register it because then she was kissing him, and John had discovered ages ago that when Wanda kissed him, there wasn't much point to thinking about anything else at all.

Now, hands clasped around Remy's stomach, head ducked against the other Acolyte's back to keep the wind from tearing at his eyes, John tried to imagine what the inside of Wanda's head looked like. Her mind. He thought of cold white walls and stone, and needles; he didn't know what else was in asylums, but that all sounded horrible enough. He thought of the pretty blue sparks that turned into raging invisible ghosts hurling things around and ripping them apart, and tried to section that part into her, to make it fit atop of the softness in her wide, clear eyes when she'd kissed him on the cheek, and the uncertain, indescribable goodness of her beauty when she'd met him on the bridge. Now, his image of her was a swirling, confused jumble, and he decided that maybe it was better to just focus on her mouth against his.

When they reached the base, Remy leaned his motorcycle against the wall of the airlock and shoved his keys in his pocket. He typed in the entrance code, gestured for John to precede him inside, and followed with a low cough.

"So," he said once they were in the front hall. "Wanna tell me what happened back there?"

"Nothing," John said, and then was a little confused by his own sharp reply. Remy, it appeared, was too. He frowned, catching John by the upper arm and forcing him to pause.

"You went off with that girl with her lookin' at you like you was her high priest, Johnny," he said. "And then we come back and find her and you joined at the face, and then when we leave she's actin' like you just told her you're going off to 'Nam right before you marry some other woman." John furrowed his brow, tugging his arm free.

"Yeah, because 'Nam was only a _few_ decades ago, so it's not like your timeline is off or-"

"You know what I mean." John sighed.

"She thought I was drunk," he said finally. Remy rocked back on his heels and waited. John walked into the kitchen, and Remy followed. They sat down. "Everything was apples, and then…"

"And then?" He dropped his chin onto his palm.

"She looked at me all serious-like, and asked me… she asked me what I wanted from her." Remy sucked in a silent breath, and squinted at John. John said nothing.

"So?"

"So what?"

"_Mon Dieu_, boy, what did you say?" John's chin slid a little further down, and he stared at the table.

"Nothing. I got distracted trying to figure out what I _should_ say, and how to say it, and by the time I decided it was worthless trying to sort that out ahead of time…"

"She decided it was worthless waitin' for you to answer."

"Basically," John agreed, somewhat dejectedly. Coming from someone else's mouth, instead of his own brain, it sounded even worse than he'd suspected. Remy shook his head.

"Well," he said, pursing his lips. "I'll give you this much, _mon ami_. You did the wrong thing for the right reasons." He allowed a small, private smile to cross his lips, remembering the day that someone had said that very thing to him. John didn't catch the light in Remy's eyes, too caught up in trying to count the grain of the wooden table he was glaring at.

"Thanks a lot, mate."

"I try." John sighed.

"So why'd she act like that after?"

"She didn't want you to know you'd hurt her," Remy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which, actually, it was. Even to John himself.

"No, I mean, when we were all leaving. Why'd she… with the hands, and…?" Remy gave him a slanted, sympathetic smile.

"What, can't you tell?" John curled a lip at him, not in any mood. Remy took pity on him. "_La fille t'aime_."

"That's pushing it." Remy shook his head, actually managing to look sage.

"No, John, a girl like Wanda… She don't act like that for just anybody. People that messed up, that scared to care? It takes a whole lot of feelin' for them to slip up. And that thing, 'with the hands'? That was slipping up." John lifted his head and met Remy's eyes.

"You think so?"

"Remy speaks from experience." John snorted.

"I'll bet you do." He nodded at the other man. "I take it you finally won over the Rogue."

"I think the Rogue won over _me_," Remy countered with a small grin, and held out a hand. John shook it, then let his own palm fall back to the table.

"Bloody hell," he said then. "So what am I supposed to do?" Remy looked a little disbelieving, and when it was obvious that John was not joking, he leaned forwards across the table.

"Let me spell this out for you, _mon ami_: go get the girl." There was an instant of silence, and then John made as if to stand. Remy darted a hand out and caught him by the wrist. "Not _now_, you moron, it's almost one in the morning!"

"Good point."

"_Merci_."

xxxxxxxxx

Wanda lay flat on her back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rogue had let her go without much in the way of questions, although the Southerner's eyes had been full of them. That was one of the good things about Rogue, though: she could tell when to just shut the hell up. It was one of the reasons she and Wanda had become friends in the first place, because it was a gift that Wanda shared, and that understanding was something that had drawn them together: if something annoyed Wanda, things exploded. If something annoyed Rogue, things got knocked out. The two of them managed a nice balance, and though there were things that Rogue could say that no one else would be able to get away with, there were also times when Rogue walked away (it was that, or something broke), and Wanda was profoundly grateful for it.

Her ceiling, however, was not all that interesting. Especially when compared to what she saw every time she closed her eyes, which was John's face or his hands or his stupid shiny little lighter.

And that kiss right before he and Remy had split away to their own car, or motorcycle, or whatever it was they'd brought. It hadn't been like the ones in the club, or the one on the bridge. It had been quick, over in seconds. Nothing but warm, firm, and yet absurdly gentle pressure on her mouth, there and gone in the time it took to exhale.

What had that _meant_? An apology, maybe? _Sorry, sheila, I don't love you, but-_

Wait.

What was that?

Love?

"I don't care if he loves me," Wanda said aloud, to the blackness of her bedroom. "_Cares about_ is different than _loves_, and while it would be nice if he actually likes me, who said anything about _love_?"

Well, Rogue had, of course. And, although she'd never gone right out with it, so had Wanda herself. Damn it.

"Ok," Wanda admitted to the shadow in the upper corner of her room nearest the window. The shadow waited for elaboration. "Ok, so I… it would be nice." A pause. The shadow seemed to shake its nonexistent head at her, disappointed. "Fine," Wanda hissed, staring it down. "It would be nice _if he loves me_. Which is stupid, because he doesn't. That's all you're getting."

She blinked, and the shadow was just the wall and the ceiling again.

Maybe she'd been the one drinking after all.

She closed her eyes, and was not surprised when a 3-D replay of their interlude on the dance floor greeted her. Only this time, when they broke the kiss, Wanda didn't give John time to say something, and just tilted her head up again and-

xxxxxxxx

Lance answered the door, already on his way out. Kitty had called him early that morning, informing him that he'd been out with Rogue the night before, and now he was going out with her. He had shrugged, agreed that it had indeed been nice to see Rogue again, and asked what time he should pick her up.

Standing in the doorway to the Brotherhood house, however, was not anyone he'd expected.

It was...

"Sabertooth?!" Lance tensed. The much-bigger man sneered.

"Relax, runt, I'm here on personal business." That phrase coming out of Victor Creed's mouth was anything but reassuring, but as soon as he said it, a second figure stepped out from behind Creed's back. St. John Allerdyce, in fine form. With roses.

Lance felt his grip on reality begin to loosen.

"What the hell?"

"G'day, mate," Pyro said cheerfully. He didn't seem at all alarmed to be standing on the front porch of an enemy group, but then again, all things considered, Lance supposed he didn't have much to worry about.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking from the redhead to the goliath and back again.

"I'm here to see Wanda," John informed him, and lifted the roses for Lance to take stock of. They weren't red, Lance noticed distractedly. They were a sort of fiery orange. Of course. "Creed, here," the Australian went on, nodding to his companion, "is going to give me a little assistance, and the rest of you a little entertainment. Don't worry, I paid him a bloody fortune for this; your furniture and your skins are perfectly safe."

Lance blinked.

"And I should believe you… because…?"

"Because if you don't let this stubborn little asshole here in," Creed replied calmly enough, "I'm going to rip you in half and we'll walk right through you. That doesn't count as 'bad behavior', does it, _Johnny_?" he asked, not looking away from Lance's face. Pyro shrugged, and Lance made an executive decision and backed up to let them pass.

"Wanda's going to kill you," he muttered to John as the Acolyte stepped by him. John grinned at him.

"If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that."

"Yeah, well." John looked towards the stairs.

"She still in bed?" Lance scratched his head and followed Pyro's gaze.

"How the hell should I know?"

"No need to get shirty on me."

"I'm gonna be late picking up Kitty because of you. That warrants… shirtyness. Whatever that is."

"Feel free to leave," Creed growled, and Lance frowned.

"Hell no."

"Right, then," John said, and breathed in deeply. "Here we go." He glanced at Lance. "Where's Toad?"

"Toad? Why-" Lance caught sight of Creed's smirk out of the corner of his eye, and his mouth went into a small O of understanding. He chewed on his lower lip. "Probably upstairs. In his room. He'll hear you coming, though."

"Good." With that, Pyro led the way to the second floor.

xxxxxxx

John considered being subtle. For about two seconds. Then he let out a whoop and kicked one of the steps.

"Hello the house!" he called, and was granted a muffled thud from the direction of Wanda's room and a slammed door from further down the hall in reply. Moments later, when he'd reached the top of the stairs, Toad appeared in a doorway a few rooms down from Pietro's twin. He looked sleepy, confused, and pretty pissed off.

"I thought I recognized that voice," he said, as if to himself, and then seemed to shake himself fully awake. "What're you doing here, jackass?"

"I keep getting insulted today," John mused aloud, mostly for Toad's benefit. "Shame."

"I'll shame you," Toad responded, somewhat predictably, and John stepped neatly aside. Toad's lunge was abruptly cut off by Victor Creed's bulk, and the younger mutant let out an angry, terrified yelp as Sabertooth's claws pressed into his stomach just hard enough to hurt.

"Keep still," Creed grunted, and Toad reluctantly stopped kicking. John surveyed the scene.

"Sorry, mate," he told Toad, and this was true. He was a little sorry. "I didn't want you interrupting me again, so I figured I might as well bring along a little help." Toad opened his mouth, and Creed smacked a hand firmly over it. A look of utter disgust slid across the big man's face, but he didn't take his palm away. Lance leaned against the wall and shrugged at Toad, who was making desperate eyes at him.

John turned to Wanda's door, which was still resolutely closed. He knocked once.

"Wanda," he called.

"Go away."

"Wanda, I need to talk to you."

"And I need you to go away."

"Now, ordinarily that'd be no worries, but I've brought you something and it'd be pretty sad if you didn't get it…" He looked down at the roses, then back up at the door. "Actually, I've brought you a few things." He wondered how long he should wait before just breaking through her door. He was, after all, determined. He'd been up all night planning out how to do this, which meant he was running on no sleep in over twenty-four hours, no food since the night before, and the barest whisper of a hangover. So he was pretty damn determined.

But, thankfully, he didn't have to break her door after all, because just then she pulled it open just wide enough to glare at him. She looked rumpled and sleep-faced and absolutely beautiful. Before he could tell her that, of course, she put one hand on the doorframe and frowned at him.

"What are you doing here, John?" She glanced over his shoulder. One eyebrow lifted slightly. "And what is Sabertooth doing to Toad?"

"He's just- You know, that's not important," John interrupted himself with, and held up the roses. "I brought you these." Wanda looked at them fast, eyes sliding over them without really seeing them, and then did a double-take. Her frown deepened with surprise and, instinctively, she reached out and took them.

"You bought me flowers?" From behind him and to the left, Lance coughed into his fist. John flicked him off behind his back.

"They're supposed to- I'm sorry," he said instead, interrupting himself again. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and with her eyes on him, promptly forgot the speech he'd come up with hours before. Wanda widened her eyes at him impatiently, though he noted that her hands were absently stroking the smoothed stems. He heard a whoosh over his shoulder, and then Pietro muttered something to Lance, who whispered something back. Wanda, eyes catching on their audience, opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly harsh and John stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. Startled, she shut her mouth with a snap.

"Listen," he said, and now his earlier cheer was replaced with a terrible urgency that he despised but couldn't fight. "You asked me. That thing you asked me. Last night." He didn't wait for her to nod or shake her head or anything. "I didn't say anything because- because I didn't really know how to say it, and then by the time- But here I am doing it again, so why don't I just cut through all this useless bullshit and say that I love you?"

The whole world, as far as John could tell, took a breather.

Behind him, the Acolyte and the Brotherhood boys alike were silent.

In front of him, Wanda was even more silent, and it was hard to tell which was wider: her eyes, or her mouth. Encouraged by the lack of violence, John slid his hands from her shoulders to her upper arms, stepping closer.

"I'm in love with you, Wanda," he said, simple as that, and had a moment to feel proud of himself for figuring out what to say before the terror hit him. She wasn't saying anything. She wasn't doing anything. She was frozen. Had Remy been wrong? Was it possible that-

"Oh, god," Wanda said then, and dropped the flowers. She grabbed John by the lapels of his unbuttoned Oxford shirt, tugged him forward, and kissed him on the mouth.

Behind them, Sabertooth struggled to keep from snapping someone's neck to make them stop clapping, and contented himself with squeezing Toad hard enough that the squirming, horrified boy nearly passed out.

When Wanda and John finally broke apart, he felt his lips curving in a helpless, daft sort of grin. He felt… he felt on fire. He felt magic.

Wanda smiled back, that lovely rare wry smile of hers, and the forgotten roses drifted up to hover in the air beside them. Not looking away from John, she caught them up in one hand.

"I guess it's kind of obvious by now," she said, smoothing her free palm across his shirt where she'd wrinkled it, "but I'm in love with you, too." John leaned down, close enough that only she could hear, and said,

"'Course you are. That's why you were stalking me in the first place." Down the hall, the ceiling light exploded.

Again.

**xxxxxxxx**

**So there you have it. The End.**

**xxxxxxxx**

**I'm planning out/beginning another piece, but it's not nearly the same tone as this. It's a fairly epic prequel to Evo, focusing on John and what leads him to join the Acolytes; it's AU, will be JONDA, and is way more serious/plot-filled than Stalking. Let me know if you'd be interested in this, because I'll write it anyway but it'd be lovely to know someone's planning on reading it...**


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